


The Dísir

by Dopamineandducks



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author does what she wants, Bastardization of Marvel Norse Lore, Disir (Marvel), F/M, Loki and Fandral are bros, Loki thinks he knows that he's doing, Loki was bullied, Mephisto (Marvel) - Freeform, Nods to Scandinavian myths and legends, Odin's A+ Parenting, Pre-Thor (2011), Protective Thor, The Author Regrets Nothing, This time it really WAS Loki's fault, Thor and Company Go On an Adventure!, Thor's a great big brother, Touchy Feely Brotherly Love Moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dopamineandducks/pseuds/Dopamineandducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki thinks he is unfairly blamed for a lot of mishaps that happen in the Realms. This time, though, the fault is definitely his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all! I need a break from lovelorn AU fanfics. After reading the wonderfully written and creepy fic [Shadew Wereld](http://archiveofourown.org/works/741016/chapters/1379765) by Theta2Serpentis (which I strongly encourage you to read), I felt inspired to write a creepy/horror fic myself.
> 
> So, without further ado, here is my startlingly different genre fic!
> 
> Love,  
> The Duck.

Were it not for the peculiar black blade, the cobwebbed and brittle sword Loki had been asked to examine would have been the dullest relic Thor brought back from his silly jaunts. It was no spectacular work of craftsmanship—maybe it would have sufficed as a decent blade in its heyday, but beyond the color of steel (was it steel?), it looked no different from the other abandoned weaponry left lying around in draugr tombs. Why Thor chose to bring this back as his prize, Loki hadn’t the foggiest.

Still, like a good brother (more like insatiable scholar), Loki conceded to inspecting the sword. Admittedly, he was intrigued by the black blade. Asgard had a particular design that was incorporated into everything: simple, streamline, perhaps an ornament or two depending upon the bearer’s rank, natural materials (a politically correct term for “not enchanted”), and no deviations. Variations naturally occurred over history as finer details of the preferred style changed, but the overall concept was the same: no fuss, just practicality.

This sword was consistent with Asgardian design from approximately 20,000 years ago, when smithies got fancy with cross-guards and occasionally fashioned them to look like fangs flanking the blade. However according to Loki’s knowledge, blades were still crafted from silver steel. He considered that perhaps it was of Niflheim make, considering its natural-born residents preferred a more eerie style than other realms. This theory was immediately rejected because it possessed no enchantments; a smithing requirement for any craft forged in the underworld. It was also clearly Asgardian in design.

It couldn’t have belonged to a noble, dignitary, or one of Loki’s ancestors given that it lacked jewels or any indication of precious settings.

He took the blade in his hands and ran his fingers down the blade. To his surprise, a knick in the blade slivered his finger. He winced from surprise rather than pain. The blade was so ancient Loki assumed it wouldn’t have been able to cut butter let alone his callused finger.

He brought the hilt close to his face, his shrewd eyes meticulously scanning for any indication of ownership. An irregularity in how the dust clung to the blade just beneath the hilt captured his attention. Brow creasing, he gently blew air onto the abnormality and wiped the grime away with his thumb, causing blood from his thumb to smear on the blade.

A pale blue light glowed beneath the residual dust. It was so dim, Loki nearly missed it. With intense intrigue suddenly biting at his neck, he grabbed a fine cloth from his desk and wiped the rest of the dirt away.

Nothing was there.

Brow creased, he sunk his incisor into the wound on his thumb to draw fresh blood and wiped it along the top of the blade. Again, a pale light glowed, but stronger this time. Still, there was no clear reason why it glowed.

He set the blade back down on the desk and ripped through the top drawer for his dagger. Quickly, he dragged the knifepoint down the pad of his thumb until a liberal amount of blood began to flow, then pressed it against the spot of the blade that glowed. His thumb burned in protest, but he didn’t pull it away until runnels of blood dripped.

What he saw surprised him.

An old rune, so ancient that he couldn’t immediately identify it, became pronounced on the blade. It was blacker than the steel and seemed to stare back at him.

How interesting.

Though he couldn’t read the rune, he knew he had seen it before. Its familiarity was just beyond the reach of his mind. He sat back in his chair, holding the blade up to the flickering torchlight of his study. His brow creased deeper as he pensively racked his brain.

After he had given himself ample time to figure it out on his own, he gingerly set the sword down on his desk and consulted his bookcases. When none of the titles jumped out at him as a possible lead, he waved his arm and slipped through the hole that opened for him. When he stepped back out, he was in the library.

He nodded respectfully (and maybe even fondly) to the librarian, a decrepit old thing who served more as a wrinkled adornment than a person of function, and strolled into the depths. He turned up nothing in the aisles containing books and scrolls of linguistics. Heaving a resigned sigh, he turned to the history section: a large, two-storied room the size of his and Thor’s chambers comprised of stacks in organized aisles for more relevant titles, and labyrinthine mazes for the more obscure, ancient texts.

Suppressing a groan, he dove in.

He read enough fiction to hope this was when he felt the mysterious “pull” to a specific section of the room that would lead him to the correct tome. But real life was disenchanting and he spent hours combing the stacks. Were it not for his patience (or persistence, to be more accurate), he would have abandoned his quest long ago. However, Loki was with knowledge how Thor was with adventure, and was tenacious until the mystery was solved.

His eyes were sore from reading, and his face and white shirt were filthy from the layers of dust built up on the shelves of the neglected section of the history room. His stomach growled—it had been hours since he had eaten, and despite what his trim physique would suggest, Loki didn’t like to miss meals.

About finished for the night, he pulled a book of the shelf and resolved it would be the last one for the evening. It was a heavy book with soiled, faded pages that threatened to crumble to bits if not treated carefully. Luckily, Loki was tender with the written word and new exactly how to care for them.

He leaned against a bookshelf, gently guiding the brittle pages from one cover to the other. His stomach growled loudly, followed by a sudden spike in anger due to his fasting. Frustrated and starving, he went to slam the book shut when an illustration captured his eye. He reopened the book (luckily, he closed it on his thumb so he was able to find the page again) and studied the picture.

 

His eyes darted over the accompanying text, translating the language as best as he could as he went.

He paused in translation, not sure if he understood the text correctly. He reread it again, knitting his brow in confusion. It couldn’t have been correct. There was no way he translated that correctly. He puzzled over the words, but his gut was confident. Slowly, he accepted the information and the ostensible ownership of the sword.

A small smirk curled on his lips.

How interesting indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Loki spent most of the nightly feast in a foul mood. He sat slumped in his chair, elbow on table, and fist against his cheek. His hard eyes were locked on Sif. The Valkyrie were back from whatever gallivant they were on, prompting Sif to spend all evening with Brunnhilde and leaving him neglected. He chewed the inside of his cheek more than he chewed his lamb chops. His gaze bore into Sif. She was supposed to sense him and remember he existed, but she never once turned to look at him. She probably felt the heat of his gaze, but didn’t care.

To maintain a modicum of pride, he tore his gaze from her with a scowl. His eyes drifted across the banquet hall. It was a night of no consequence, a rare occurrence in which Thor didn’t assemble an army of drunken soldiers to sing and drink themselves into a stupor. The usually ruckus hall now murmured like the ocean. Asgardians of a tamer breed dotted the gilded benches and tables, politely pecking at the fare provided. Mostly politicians, and mostly men. Their wives accompanied them, of course. Each woman sported a gown that excessively shimmered in the golden glow of the hall. Some vulgar attempt at mimicking the night sky, no doubt. They gossiped among themselves, sometimes behind their hands, with backs straight as arrows. Each blonde haired, rosy cheeked woman looked like the last. Inevitably, Loki’s eyes drifted back to Sif.

His fingers drummed on the table, partly because he was bored, but mostly because he was impatient. After Thor deposited the sword with him two nights ago, he took Sif and the Warriors Three hunting in the forests by the mountains. Loki was offended by this. It seemed that Thor didn’t think he was capable of unlocking the mysterious blade’s secrets in such a short amount of time. That or he didn’t care about it. In which case: why waste Loki’s time at all?

Now they were back, and he was itching to divulge its secrets. However, his companions did not seem too eager to adjourn to their usual lounge for private conversation. Sif still chattered away with Brunnhilde, Volstagg showed off his new daughter, and Fandral shamelessly flirted with a chancellor’s wife while Hogun stood by. Surprisingly, he had no clue where Thor was. The man was louder than a bilgesnipe in labor, but he wasn’t uttering a peep. Nothing disturbed him more than a quiet God of Thunder. Then again, he did enjoy the peace.

He locked eyes with Fandral and poured every shred of intensity he possessed into his stare. He felt akin to a black shadow fuming from a throne. Fandral lifted his eyebrows and shrugged, his quarry momentarily forgotten. Loki hardened his glare, his lip curling in scowl and nostrils flaring. The blonde warrior threw his arms up, eyes wide and exasperated. Feeling like his message got across, Loki rose from his seat and left the banquet hall.

He retreated to a chamber down the hall. With a flick of his hand, a fire roared to life in the silver hearth at the head of the room. He stood in front of the flames and considered the sword. His shadow twitched on the wall beside him. Warm light danced on his face, but exaggerated the shadows beneath his eyes, making his fair skin appear gaunt and listless. He wondered how his companions would take the news. They’d be spooked most likely. The superstitions of warriors were so very amusing.

It took longer than he would have liked to hear footsteps out in the hall. He positioned himself thoughtfully in front of the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle while the other stroked his hairless chin.

“All I’m saying is a man needs his rest,” Volstagg said. His usually jovial blue eyes were dull, and his complexion appeared gray. Fandral had caught him as he and Gudrun were retiring for the night.

“Yes, Volstagg, we know,” Fandral said, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling. “If you’re not bellyaching about food, you are whining for sleep. Do you ever say anything else?”

The hulking redhead muttered darkly about the inevitability of Fandral’s parenthood, but it fell on deaf ears. He flung himself down on a lounger and kicked his feet up.

“Well, I brought them,” Fandral said. “Mind sharing why you’re itching to meet with us?”

Loki looked around and only saw the Warriors Three. “Where’s Sif?” he asked. His neck burned. He already knew the answer. “And Thor?”

“Speaking with the Ladies Brunnhilde and Hildegaard,” Volstagg answered as he plopped into a stuffed chair. The giant man seemed to deflate as he sank into his seat. “And Thor is on the balcony…otherwise engaged.”

“They need to be here.”

Fandral stretched out like a cat. “Well you know where they are.”

A moment passed in which the only sound was the crackling logs in the fireplace. Shadows danced wildly in the dim room. Fandral finished a yawn and jumped when he saw the look Loki was giving him.

“I just got comfortable!”

Loki kept the intensity in his stare. Eventually, Fandral pushed himself off the lounger and left the chamber swearing. He returned with an irritated glower, and an even more irritated Sif in tow. Loki stiffened when Brunnhilde appeared through the doorway a second later.

“Where’s Thor?” Loki asked. His voice sounded calm through his clenched teeth.

“I couldn’t hear over the screaming of his companion,” Fandral said as he, once again, got cozy on the lounger. “But I think he may be along shortly.”

“Very shortly,” Volstagg smirked. The blonde man laughed.

“What’s this about,” Sif asked. She swatted Fandral’s boots off the end of the lounger. He guffawed as she and Brunnhilde made themselves comfortable.

“It’s about that blunt kitchen knife of a sword you brought me from the draugr tombs.”

Sif crossed her arms as she sank back into the couch. “Well, do you mind getting on with it? Some of us don’t have all night.”

Loki cocked his head. “Why, Sif? Do you have some place you need to be? I thought all the company you ever wanted was here in this room.”

She narrowed her eyes, catching on to his insinuation. Loki blinked—a perfect picture of innocence.

Much to his companions’ disgruntlement, Loki refused to utter a word until Thor arrived. They waited another ten minutes before he staggered through the door with the gait of a satisfied man. Loki’s lip curled.

“I’d apologize for keeping you waiting,” Thor said as he plopped down between Fandral and Sif. Fandral growled as his space was annexed once more. “But I’m not at all sorry for why you waited.”

Loki rolled his eyes so hard that he felt his nerves strain. He took a deep, controlled breath.

“What’s this about?” the thunderer asked.

Loki opened his mouth to answer.

“The sword,” Volstagg said.

Thor’s brow knitted. “Sword? What sword?”

A vein throbbed in Loki’s neck. Of course he forgot.

“From the draugr tomb,” Fandral said.

A beat passed before the dawn appeared on Thor’s face. “Oh! The sword! What about it?”

Loki’s teeth began to hurt from clenching his jaw. “Well, if you let me explain—”

“The one with the black blade right?” Thor scanned his companions’ faces for confirmation. “I’ve never seen an Asgardian sword with a black blade.”

“Yes, Thor, therein lies the mystery, but after researching—”

“Do you think it’s from Niflheim?”

“Thor!” Sif elbowed him in the ribs. Thor coughed and sputtered. “Let him speak.” She nodded at Loki.

Warmth pooled in his belly, and resentment gathered in his chest. “Now, you recall the sword you brought back from the tombs,” he began, his ire subsiding as he focused on the task at hand. “Despite its relatively unremarkable craftsmanship, the black blade was curious.”

“Yes, which is why we brought it to you,” Thor said.

Tensed, the young prince gave his brother a hard look before pressing on. “Yes, well, I almost thought it to be a defect—a result of poor smithing. I, too, assumed Nifilheim as its origin. But the weapon has no obvious enchantments, and its design is consistent with that of Asgard. However, after spending hours pouring over scrolls and tomes in the library—”

He stole a glance at his audience. Volstagg’s neck drooped forward, his breathing heavy. Fandral appeared bored, Thor had already glazed over, Sif was unimpressed, and Brunnhilde regarded him with hard, distrusting eyes. Only Hogun appeared to be listening with the slightest trace of interest, and that was unusual for the Vanir warrior.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” he asked.

“Why must you be so theatrical,” Thor asked, heaving a sigh. “Can’t you just tell us what it is?”

Loki lifted his head in righteous indignation. “I am extrapolating on the process in which I have concluded—”

“You’re indulgent.”

“Thor!” Sif said, “For Odin’s sake let him speak! Loki, please just tell us. It’s late.”

The young prince sniffed. “The sword bears the mark of Bor’s personal guard: the Dísir.”

The name sailed over everyone’s head except for Brunnhilde’s. She sucked in a sharp breath, causing them to cast questioning glances at her. She looked obviously disturbed.

“Are you certain,” she asked, her contralto voice grave.

Loki nodded. “Quite certain. Blood from a wound I incurred inspecting the blade surfaced the insignia. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I was able to identify it in an old folklore tome from Bor’s day.”

“Must have been an old book,” Thor murmured.

“What’s so important about bodyguards,” Fandral asked, still not entirely interested in this disclosure. “Why did they have black swords?”

Loki tented his fingers as he paced in front of the fireplace thoughtfully. “The Dísir—”

“Do not speak their name,” Brunnhilde said, her voice edged with worry.

He snorted. “Come, Brunnhilde, you don’t honestly put stock in those silly legends now do you?”

She glared. “To speak their name is to invite death.”

Thor became interested. “What legends?”

“I expected paranoid reactions from the others, Lady of Fury,” Loki drawled, “But not from you.”

The Valkyrie captain stood, her shoulders square and eyes dark. “Tread with more respect for the wraiths, Trickster, lest you seek a world of horrors.”

“What legends?” Thor repeated.

“A world of horrors,” Loki said, “Pray tell what kind of ‘horrors’ are these storybook creatures are capable of?”

Brunnhilde’s hands balled at her sides. A vein in her forearm appeared. “By the Nine, Loki, if you had any sense, you’d—”

“WHAT LEGENDS?!” Thor boomed. A roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. Loki rolled his eyes. And _he_ was accused of being dramatic.

Brunnhilde’s gaze shifted from Thor to Loki. The young prince waved his hand dismissively and leaned against the fireplace half shrouded in shadow. His eyes fell on Sif as she hesitantly drew her gaze from him to her companion. The valkyrie’s eyes bore into Loki, nostrils flaring. He deigned to regard her wryly.

“The Wraiths were more than bodyguards,” Brunnhilde began, her voice hesitant but strong. “They were to Bor how we are to Odin—the first Valkyrie, so to speak.”

They leaned into Brunnhilde’s story. Even Volstagg was awake and listening with interest. Loki scowled at their insolence.

“They were loyal to him, and were revered across the Nine Realms. Then one night, while drunk on the splendor of war, they chose to celebrate their victory by feasting on the fallen bodies of their enemies.”

A bolt of discomfort shot through the room. Even Hogun shifted.

Brunnhilde continued, her tanned face stern and hard. “Bor found out and cursed them to exist in a realm between the living and dead, to be forever hungry and sated only by feasting on the spirits of dead Asgardians.”

A burning log popped.

“They are wicked creatures,” the valkyrie said, “To speak their name is to awaken them. Once summoned, they will not relent until they get what they crave…god flesh.”

The company looked thoroughly rattled. Color had all but drained from Volstagg’s face and Fandral looked like he may retch. Even Thor—God of Thunder, Giver of Lightning, Wielder of Mjolnir, and Crown Prince of Asgard—swallowed a lump in his throat. Loki couldn’t help but smirk.

“Truly their just tales—stories,” Fandral said, eyes darting from his companions to Brunnhilde.

The captain was stern. “I know not,” she said, “I only hope so.”

The sudden sound of slow, derisive clapping made them jump. “Well done, well done,” Loki said. “I must say, I haven’t seen Thor or his gaggle so spooked since they encountered their first werespider.”

Brunnhilde glared. “Silent, Silvertongue.”

“Oh no, my lady. I believe the title ‘Silvertongue’ belongs to you and your gilded words.” He bowed low to her.

Her biceps flared as she balled her fists and lunged at Loki. Quickly, Sif stood and grabbed her arm. “Peace, Brunnhilde,” she said, “Don’t let him wiggle beneath your skin.”

The valkyrie glared holes through the mischievous god, who regarded her with a crooked grin. She ripped away from Sif and stalked out of the chamber. Sif glared darkly at Loki and quickly tailed her departing friend.

A charged silence thickened the room.

“I believe I’ve had all the fun I could handle for one night,” Fandral said, scurrying to his feet.

Volstagg grumbled and struggled out of his chair. “About time. Good night, lads.”

The Warriors Three departed the room, then separated individually to their respective homes. Thor and Loki ambled in silence back to the wing their bedrooms were in. Thor continued to press Loki for details regarding the Dísir, obviously inspired by their gruesome tale. Loki was pleased that the wraiths were myth. He shuddered at the thought of being forced into an altercation with cannibals because of his brother’s ego.

He poured himself a glass of wine when he got back to his chambers. The two moons played a game of chase through the sky: the small, purplish moon chased the large, luminescent moon that spilled light onto the darkness of Asgard. He stood on his balcony, wine clutched in his slender fingers, and basked in the cool night. He felt invigorated as his lungs drew in the chill. Below, the sea churned and crashed against the crag the palace stood upon. Far down the gulf, mist began to crawl across the ocean, hiding the waters from his view.

He heard a knock at his door. A smirk crawled on his lips. He left the haunting view to meet his visitor. Sif stood on the other side of the door, half scowling, half inviting.

“Lady Sif,” he said, “What are you doing here? I was under the impression you were occupied tonight.”

“Shut up.” She passed him. Loki gave the guards outside his a door a look which demanded discretion as he closed his door with a soft click.

“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”

“I can leave.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Sif looked over her shoulder. The darkness in her eyes sent a thrill down Loki’s spine. “So you don’t mind if I stay?”

“I practically insist,” he said. “It’s too late for a lady to walk unescorted through the palace, and I’m far too spent to make the journey.”

She barked a laugh.

Loki smiled.

“The day of a magician must be taxing indeed,” she said as she approached him. He watched the curve of her hip sway. “And scholar.”

“And warrior.”

She laughed again. This time, Loki frowned. She pried the glass of wine from his hand and traced the rim with her finger. “Don’t pout,” she said. “It’s not becoming on you.”

“I am just as skilled on the battle field as the rest of you,” he snapped. “And let’s not forget who is the designated healer and—”

Sif put a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. “I’m teasing.”

“I don’t like it,” he said around her finger.

She rolled her eyes and tapped his lips. “You never did.” She knocked back the rest of the wine.

He watched her throat as she swallowed. A wicked feeling consumed him. “Though,” began, drawing the word out dramatically. Sif raised her eyebrow. “There is _another_ form of teasing I’m fond of…”

Her eyes darkened. She licked away the residual wine on her bottom lip. Loki watched. “What a coincidence,” she breathed on his mouth. Her fingers ghosted his arms, making him shiver. “Same here.”

The spaces between their bodies disappeared. He gathered her in his arms and retreated to his bed chamber. He didn’t bother closing the door. Be damned if the guards heard.

 

***

The wind blew in the depths. Blackness filled every crack. The air was stifled—thick and hard to breathe. There was a sudden, labored inhale. Desperate. Something else sputtered. Four pale blue lights appeared in the dark.

“We have awoken?”

“So it would seem.”

“Why?”

Another sudden sucking of air. A screech followed. Rocks cracked and tumbled in the darkness. Two more blue lights appeared.

“Who has summoned us?”

There were clicks in the dark, like popping jaws.

A growl curdled in the dark. A final pair of blue lights appeared as narrow slits.

“A son of Laufey.”

“Jotun blood! It’s been ages.”

 _Click click click pop._ “Jotun flesh is rancid—frostbitten and bitter. Not the ideal supper after an epoch of sleep.”

“Flessshhh is flessshhh, Göndul.”

“Not Jotun. The Aesir have summoned us.”

“Aesir?”

“From the House of Odin.”

A hiss somewhere in the dark.

“They have also taken my sword…”

 _Crack pop._ “Jotun flesh, Aesir flesh, it matters not. Hlökk is hungry.”

“And how are we supposed to feed, Brün? Have you forgotten Bor’s curse?”

“Our friends will provide for us.”

“And how will they do that? Kára is weak and doesn’t have the magic to summon them.”

“Silence Göndul, or it is you we will feast upon!”

Another growl, followed by a gnashing of teeth. A peculiar chirp answered. The sound of metal scraping against rock and bone echoed in the hollowed dark.

“Peace, sisters, peace.” The depths fell back into an uneasy quiet. “You forget the senseless violence the Aesir are fond of. We will find our mark soon enough, then Kára will have energy to summon our aid.”

“But I must feed now!”

“Silence, Göndul!”

A petulant moan.

“Patience, sisters. We will be feasting soon enough. Our bellies will be full with the blood of Bor. His line will be ended. He will pay with their blood.”

 

***

 

Erland had a mean right hook. His fist connected with Dagfinn’s jaw like a hammer to an anvil, sending the pinguid blonde staggering backwards. He tripped on an irregularity in the stone street and hit the back of his head hard. The world spun, then blurred, and finally blacked out. He could faintly hear voices, though he didn’t know what they were saying. They may have been demanding Erland stop, but they were most likely encouraging him. Dagfinn became a nuisance to the tavern so gradually that he didn’t notice. It wasn’t until that cranky old sod Gudbrand threatened to gut him if he didn’t keep his yap shut that he knew something was amiss. Dagfinn’s requests for backup were meant with stink-eyes and cold shoulders.

Some friends they were. Just because he forgot his money once or twice.

Slowly, he came back to consciousness. His was surprised how cognizant he was. He had taken his lumps more than once, and was normally a dizzy wreck for a day or so. This time, he stood without wavering or falling. His chest swelled. Maybe he had finally become a substantial Aesir. A god even!

“Hey!” he said, stalking after the crowd that was filing back into the tavern. “Erland, I’m not finished with you yet!”

He reached to grab his shoulder, but his hand passed through his body. Erland didn’t even turn around. Gaping, Dagfinn reached for him again. When he failed to make contact, he screamed and jumped back. Frantically he patted down his body to make sure it didn’t happen again. To his relief—and confusion—he found he was solid.

“What’s going on? Guys! Guys!”

He pursued them, but stopped in his tracks. His body was lying on the ground in front of him, sprawled like a drunk. His head had fallen limply to the side, and his skull was surrounded by a halo of blood. Dagfinn gaped in horror.

He couldn’t be dead. The punch didn’t hurt that much, and bumping his head certainly didn’t seem bad enough to kill him. Yet there he was standing over his fat, lifeless body. He grimaced at his appearance: soiled, disheveled clothing, gut protruding past his toes, and pudgy cheeks serving as a cushion from the street. No wonder his wife hated him. When did he turn into such a drunk?

He tore his eyes away from his body and walked away from town. The large moon filled the foothills with a ghostly light. Beside it, the smaller moon was like a phantom in the sky. He was no warrior. He dwelled on his future. He had never done a valiant thing in his life. He even refused to kill spiders for his wife.

“Do I look like Thor?” he’d ask and returned to whatever he was doing. Probably drinking.

The golden halls of Valhalla were not for him. Hel certainly waited for him. A chill crawled down his spine. The land of ice and failure. That’s where he belonged. He imagined a ghostly shepherd would arrive any moment now to guide him off to the misty realm. He wondered if his family would miss him. Probably not.

Off in the distance by the forest wall, two pale blue lights suddenly appeared. He swallowed. Perhaps it was his shepherd, studying him with disturbing, glowing eyes. Then, four more eyes appeared. Then two more. A cold wind hissed in the space between him and _them_. Something didn’t feel right.

He wanted to vomit. Could spirits vomit? He felt like he could. His body began to shake. In life, he lived as a coward, but perhaps it wasn’t too late for him.

“Hello,” he called, voice trembling like a frightened cat. “I am prepared for my journey to Hel. Please, lead on, Master Guides.”

The eyes were suddenly approaching him. Fast. Alarmed, Dagfinn wheeled around and attempted to flee. The disturbing silence fed his fears. He knew it was useless running from his maker, but he lived life as a coward, and would apparently live death as a coward. He heard the footfalls quietly striking the earth. The fact that they closed the distance between him and the forest so quickly terrified him. These were no shepherds.

He didn’t finish his thought. He screamed as he was tackled to the ground. A body perched on his back, and pressed him into the earth like a boulder. The thing screeched. Then, something bit into his shoulder. It felt like tiny knives penetrating his flesh and ripping out a piece of him. He shrieked, and was bitten again. And again. And again. And again. Claws tore through his back like scissors across cloth. The thing gurgled, slurped, growled, and gnashed. Perhaps the most horrifying revelation was that pain existed even in the afterlife.

He was flipped over to his back. The contact of dirt to his wounds was unbearable. He almost didn’t notice the attack had ceased. Sniveling, with fat tears streaking his grimy face, he opened his eyes. He drew a breath (if that’s indeed what it was in the afterlife). Though his mouth hung open, no scream came out. Through the bleariness vision, he saw hollowed eyes staring at him beneath a hood. They were unnatural and glowing pale blue. It hissed and bared its filed teeth. It opened its mouth wide and lowered itself to his neck.

Then Dagfinn knew no more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who are taking the time to read this! The kudos are much appreciated bursts of dopamine.  
> Heads up: I play with the concept of "draugr" in this fic. They are not the Skyrim zombies we have come to know and love. 
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

They circled each other like patient wolves. Their eyes were locked, steady and keen. Around them, spectators gathered to catch a glimpse of the princes in the heat of sparring. It was a rare sight. Loki hardly indulged in hand-to-hand combat anymore, but would occasionally step in the ring for motivations unknown. Of course his opponent was always Thor. He only ever fought him.

Somebody twitched. In an instant, they were engaged in battle once more. Thor leapt, hefting Mjolnir high above his head and swinging it down on his brother. Lithe and agile, Loki easily stepped to the side. He ducked as Thor changed Mjolnir’s trajectory to the side of his head. His leg shot out and kicked Thor’s feet from under him. The Thunderer crashed to the ground. He rolled back onto his shoulders and exploded to his feet, kicking Loki in the face as he did so. The second prince stumbled back, his head spinning and mouth bleeding. Thor saw his opportunity and knocked him to the ground. Loki ground his teeth. He tried to get up, but the world was spinning and rolling and whirling and shaking. He was down for the count.

The God of Thunder appeared over him. The sun shined behind him, casting him in a perfect halo. He grinned smugly.

“It appears I’ve won again brother!” he boomed. On cue, the spectators applauded. Drinking in the moment, Thor threw his hands to the sky, absorbing the cheers like sunrays.

Loki scowled. In a moment of white hot rage, he flew at his brother. Thor was caught off guard and was tackled to the ground. Thinking Loki was continuing their friendly spar, he tried to cast his brother off to resume the fight. However, his little brother was fiercer than he expected. Loki punched him in the face repeatedly. Growling, Thor threw him back and rose to his feet. The two were engaged again before the audience could blink. They grappled like trolls, throwing punches whenever they could get one in. The crowd cheered them on. When they realized the sport had left the fight, they gaped awkwardly.

“Break it up, break it up!” Volstagg said as he ensnared the Thunder God in his beefy arms. Fandral pulled Loki back. The brothers fought against their restraints, struggling to get back at each other.

“Steady on, boys,” Fandral said. “It’s all fun and games until someone’s face gets smashed in!”

The brothers were successfully separated. Loki tore away from Fandral and stormed back to the palace. Fandral had to jog to keep up with him.

“Calm down, Loki! You’re marching like a blood thirsty Jotun to war!”

Loki spat blood out the side of his mouth. “The arrogance of Thor will be his undoing. I will prove it one day.”

Fandral placed a hand on his shoulder once he caught up. “Thor is Thor, Loki. Don’t let him get to you.”

The young prince ripped away from his friend and continued into the palace. He roared, throwing his arms, and sending a blast of magic against the wall. A young maid screamed and dropped a ceramic bowl. Lunging forward, Fandral grabbed Loki by the shoulders and directed him away from the scene. Once they had cleared, an older maid rushed forward to help the frightened girl clean up.

“You’re going to kill someone one day, Loki,” the blond muttered.

Loki pulled away again and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, paused, and slowly exhaled through his mouth. His eyes remained shut for a brief second. When they fluttered open, he had visibly calmed down.

Fandral sighed in relief.

“I suppose I should apologize to that girl,” the prince mused.

“It would be the polite thing to do.”

They shared an amused look before proceeding through the palace.

“You look like Hel,” Fandral said.

Now that his adrenaline was dropping, he found that his right eye had difficulty staying open. His brow pulsed and he felt a runnel of blood drip from his nose. He didn’t dare peak in reflective surfaces they passed out of fear of seeing his face already purpling. He only hoped Thor looked just as bad.

“Kind observation, Fandral, thank you.”

He laughed and clapped him on the back. Loki grunted. “Fear not, my friend. The Eir possesses the skill to restore you back to your former beauty. If not, you’re a prince of Asgard! I’m sure anyone would be willing to lay with you based off that alone.”

A smirk laced with secrecy danced on his lips. Sif would probably lay into him fiercely if she could see him now. Physical violence normally got her blood boiling, however healthy that may be. Alas, she was off with Brunnhilde. Damn that woman.

They crossed the main atrium of the palace. As always, citizens weregathered outside of the king’s throne room waiting to seek his council. Some looked nervous to be meeting the All-Father. Others looked furious and brought spoiled crops or broken tools. Probably evidence to condemn a neighbor. Some notice Loki as he passed, but most were wrapped up in their own worlds to heed him. If he were Thor, though…

Suddenly, an entourage of ten or more people appeared at the atrium’s main entrance. Two are carrying purple banners on golden poles. A tree is stitched in gold thread on the banners. The group was dressed in dark gray robes, save for the woman in front. Her gown was deep purple, almost burgundy in the dancing light, with a plunging neckline and a slit stopping high up on her thigh. A golden crown rested on top her head of long, curling hair. She approached with a sense of authority that could rival Odin.

She caught sight of Loki. Her dark painted lips lift in a smirk. Loki was unmoved, but straightened himself regardless. He could see Fandral gaping openly at the woman’s ample bosom.

“This is a delight,” she said. “I was hoping to see you on my trip, but didn’t expect it so soon.”

“Karnilla,” he said. She held out her hand, which he took gently by her fingers and planted a soft kiss on her knuckles. “A delight indeed. What brings you to Gladsheim?” Fandral coughed, and Loki ignored him.

“A rather irritating reason,” she said, her grey eyes narrowing. “It seems the All-Father’s citizens are not honoring my borders and keep venturing into Nornheim territory. I have been patient thus far, but if the Asgardians do not respect my lands, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

Loki licked pooling blood from his lip. “Nor should you.” Fandral’s coughing went ignored again.

The woman’s eyes dropped to his lips. A glimmer danced in her eyes. “What happened here?" She tapped his lip. "Say the word, Prince Loki, and I shall make your assailant rue his actions.” She gently let her finger slide down his chin.

“A mere encounter with my brother,” he said with a shrug. “I appreciate your offer, but I prefer to handle my own affairs.”

Fandral couldn’t contain himself anymore. He stepped forward and bowed low to her. “My lady, I am Fandral of the Warriors Three, companion to Princes Thor and Loki. It is a true honor to meet you.”

The throne room doors opened and a smiling elderly man hobbled out with his sturdy son hovering behind him.

Karnilla’s regarded him coolly. “Hm yes I’m sure. Well that’s my cue,” Karnilla said. She turned to Loki and cupped his cheek. “I hope this won’t be our only encounter during my stay?”

He mustered a thin smile. “I’m sure it won’t be.”

Her chest inflated as she drew a breath. Slowly, her hand fell from his face then cut past a young couple holding a swaddled baby and disappeared into the throne room with her entourage. Awkwardly, the couple stepped back in line with their cooing infant.

Loki stared after her, refusing to accept Karnilla’s reasoning for appearing. The Norn Queen had no issue enforcing her borders. Though Nornheim was a part of Asgard, the All-Father gave her sovereignty over the northern province with the condition that she protect the path that led to the Well of Urdr where the Norns dwelled. She was quick to demonstrate to the Asgardians that were borders were firm. Few lived near the Nornheim-Asgard border due to her ferocity. Unregulated immigration could not be the true reason for her unexpected arrival.

He turned away and continued to his chambers. He would doubtlessly find out more soon enough. After dismissing Fandral from following him like a dog, he cleaned up in his washroom and sat down to heal his wounds. He assessed the damages in his mirror and grimaced. Thor certainly did a number on him. His lip was fatter than it felt, and right eye was completely swollen shut and dark purple. His thin, straight nose was bloodied and kinked in the middle and his cheek was puffy. Perhaps he wouldn’t let Sif see him in his post-fight state.

He pulled three green stones from his drawer and ground them into a fine powder. He made a fine paste using a couple drops of water and caked it on the angrier wounds. Within seconds, his face began to tingle warmly, though his nose burned. A couple minutes later, he filled a copper basin with water and ground another stone into it, then washed his face.

He inspected himself once more after patting his face dry. His lips and eye were back to normal size, and his nose had straightened. There was still a slight discoloration around his eye, but it would fade over the next few hours. He collapsed on a chair beside his fireplace, which promptly roared to life. Books were precariously stacked on a table beside his chair. He pulled the top one off the stack and flipped to the earmarked page, then settled in to read. The Norn Queen’s arrival doubtlessly meant a grand feast for the night—one which would probably warrant formal garb and his helmet. Until then, he planned on spending the rest of his evening with his books.

 

***

 

Karnilla’s sudden arrival sparked unease among those who knew her. Unprepared by the change in his docket, the king’s crier stammered through her announcement. Odin lifted a bushy brow as she clacked across golden floors to the throne.

“Karnilla,” Odin said, his strong voice sounding somehow gentle. “This is a surprise. What has brought you all this way without word in advance?”

“We have a problem, Odin,” she said, “A rather serious one.”

He tilted his head. “What would that be?”

“Bor’s Valkyrior.”

The expansive room stiffened.

“Leave us,” the All-Father said. His advisors filed out of the room, grumbling amongst themselves. Without taking his eye of the queen, he addressed the guards stationed equidistant along the perimeter of the room. “All of you.” Hesitantly, the guards obeyed. Karnilla nodded to her entourage who exited as well. The mammoth golden doors closed with a _thud_.

Odin sat forward on his throne. His knuckles were turning white from gripping Gungir. “What about them,” he asked.

“We have reason to believe they have awoken,” she said as she ascending the steps to the throne. “There has been a shift in the natural order of things. People are dying yet are not turning up in Valhalla or Hel. There is a stink on the footpaths to the After Realms. Something is wrong.”

“What do the Norns say?”

The beautiful queen spat. “Nothing, as usual. They weave their looms in nonsensical patterns and speak in riddles. They are useless creatures.”

“Do not blaspheme, Karnilla,” he said. “They speak wisdom to those who can listen.”

She ignored his pointed remark. “Our problems are bigger than impious beliefs towards the goddesses.”

He shifted in his seat and pulled on his beard. His fishy blue eye was fixed on the swirling knots inlaid in the floor as if they’d give him answers if he was patient.

“Could it be anything else? Perhaps Mephisto is poaching souls for his own agenda.”

She shook her head. “No. Unfortunate Midgardian souls funnel straight to him. He has no reason to seek Asgardian spirits. They do not fear him as they do on Midgard.”

The All-Father was still, but his mind was racing, desperately searching through his vast stores of knowledge and memory to think of an alternative explanation.

“Odin, Hel dispatched guards to the Black Hills…”

His eye darted to her.

“Their tombs are empty.”

He slammed the butt of his spear into the ground. The crash echoed up to the vaulted ceiling. “Damn.”

Silence settled in the throne room like a fog. An eerie sensation crawled down Karnilla’s spine, making her shudder. Asgard suddenly became a darker place.

“What are we to do,” she asked, her voice thin. Though she called herself Queen of Nornheim, she was no norn herself. She was of Asgardian blood, and the idea of her kindred being consumed by the wraiths filled her with dread.

Odin was silent. The floor had not offered the solutions he hoped it would. He had no idea what to do.

 

***

Only Asgardians who proved themselves to be worthy in life received an honorable funeral. Men and women who lived by the values of bravery, fortitude, and loyalty were burned on the pyre with sword laid across their chest. The truly remarkable were set adrift in a boat towards the edge of Asgard. Flaming arrows would be shot to engulf the boat in flames as it fell down the waterfall into space.

The average Asgardians, those of little or no consequence, were buried in mounds away from cities and villages. Carved rocks would be placed on top of the grave. If the dead was especially loved by its people, they would arranged the rocks in a circle around the mound to signify their importance and protect them from the demons prowling the afterlife.

But Dísir were not demons.

“Do you have strength enough, Kára?”

“She better. She’s been hogging all the food.”

“Silence, Göndul!”

“Yes, Brün. I am ready.”

Brün hissed in delight. “Then call them, Sister of Twilight. Call them forth.”

Above, the heavens blackened. The amorphous clouds of nebulae vanished, leavening nothing but an unnatural pitch sky. The moons were still present, yet ghostly. Their light spilled faintly onto the earth, but avoided the burial grounds altogether. Not even they wanted to witness what was taking place.

A faint glow appeared in the fog. Energy buzzed in a dissonant pitch. Birds retreated from the trees. Worms, spiders, and millipedes crawled over each other to flee. A foul stench became present. From somewhere in the mist, something chirped. Another answered in a growl.

“Excellent,” Brün croaked, “More, Kára.”

Within minutes, the cemetery became bogged down with negative energy. A chorus of otherworldly giggles, snarls, chirps, and chuckles mixed in the mist. The stench was unbearable.

A creature, Asgardian-like, but completely black and angular in unnatural ways, crawled up the stony hill where the wraiths stood. Its yellow eyes were the only thing visible in the darkness. It purred as its nails scratched across the rock while it climbed.

“You call the draugr, my lady?” Its voice was frightening. As if it didn’t belong in this world.

“We need you to do a favor for us,” Brün said.

“What is in it for us?”

“Asgardian bodies, with which you can do what you like.”

The shadow creature purred. “And what will you have us do?”

“Kill Loki Odinson and all who get in your way.”

"The palace is warded."

"Kára will get you in."

A row of sharp teeth appeared as the devilish thing grinned. “It would be the draugr’s pleasure.” It slunk back down the rocky precipice. The mist swirled as a swell of giggles heightened in pitch. Black wisps dashed through the fog away from the cemetery. In the distance, the palace gleamed like a gem under the sickly moonlight.


	4. Chapter 4

Loki was in the library when a servant was sent for him. Apparently someone special had arrived and his presence was mandatory for the greeting. He was more curious than irritated by the interruption. First Karnilla’s unexpected arrival, and now another guest worthy of pomp. Given the time of year it was and that no special events were close, this was a peculiar circumstance.

Imagine his utter delight when he found out Baldur the Nauseating had returned from his studies on Alfheim. Nearly the entire palace had poured into the courtyard at the end of the Rainbow Bridge to welcome back Asgard’s other prodigal son. Everything outside seemed enhanced: the sun was shining extra brightly, the sky was a richer hue of blue, the clouds fluffier, and everyone seemed to have a bounce in their step. And how could they not? He was incandescent. There was always a smile on his face, and no one could stop from smiling while in his company. No one except Loki, that is.

He hung back in the crowd, a silent island amidst a sea of cheering courtiers, servants, and soldiers. His neutral expression cracked slightly when Baldur threw his arms around Sif and lifted her in the air. She protested loudly, smacking his shoulders and kicking, but her eyes were bright and laughter joyous. He set her down, but threw an arm around her shoulders and the other around Fandral.

The crowd parted for him as he and the others headed towards the throne room to greet Odin and Frigga. When Baldur saw him in the path, his grin faltered. He withdrew his arms from Fandral and Sif and stepped forward. He extended his arm to embrace Loki’s. The gesture went ignored.

“Loki,” he said, “It’s been awhile. You look darker! Have you been in the sun?”

It was an amicable joke, obviously, given Loki’s pallor. Had Fandral or Thor made it, he would have humored it.

“Unlike my fellow countrymen, I fail to understand the sun’s glorification. I find beauty in the less recognized.”

Though Baldur was like Thor in many ways—in build, appearance, and manner—he didn’t share the thunderer’s density. His kind demeanor shifted and regarded Loki coolly.

“I suppose you’ve always enjoyed the dark crannies more than life outside.”

Loki lifted his chin. Balder’s grinned in return, shining brighter than before.

“Come, Balder,” Thor said. It was clear he was oblivious to what just took place. “The All-Father will be pleased with your arrival.”

They walked around Loki, once again laughing and booming as they departed. Sif sighed as she passed by.

“Must you always be rude?”

Loki didn’t think before he spoke. “Must you always be a trollop for any man with a sword?”

He regretted his words the instant they left his mouth. Fire swelled in her olivine eyes. Ablaze, she whirled away and stalked up the stairs after her departing comrades. Loki’s hand twitched to grab her as she left, but stayed his hand. Too many eyes were present. He inhaled deeply as she turned a corner and out of sight. He knew she would not visit tonight.

 

***

The feast held in honor of Karnilla the other night was grand. The banquet hall was decorated with purple banners and served food that was customary to northern Asgard. A lovely band of musicians serenaded the evening, and the Norn queen asked Loki for more than one dance. The feast that was thrown for Baldur, however, surpassed it the way an asteroid passes stagnant space debris. No special banners were hung for him for he was not part of the royal family, but one could have been fooled into thinking he was. Endless tables upon endless tables overflowed with roasted animals and alcohol. There was a small ensemble playing upbeat melodies, but the music was drowned out by the drunken singing of hundreds of men. Thor and Baldur stood on a table, arms around each other’s shoulders, leading bacchanal chorus. Their tankards sloshed as they swayed and sang.

Karnilla was even swept up in the occasion. She usually hated being overshadowed, but she didn’t seem to mind this time. After she noticed Baldur, Loki went ignored. She floated to him, her dark lips curling into that inviting smirk Loki knew very well. She tried luring him away by calling attention to her milky white thigh visible through the slit in her gown, but Baldur had none of it. He turned his back to her and continued to revel with his friends. Dejected, she left the hall not long after.

Loki put up with the festivities in hopes of pulling Sif aside. She knew him well, though, and positioned herself between Thor and Baldur all night. If Loki wished to speak with her, he’d have to acknowledge Asgard’s golden boys, who were more like brother’s than Loki ever was. Thoroughly nauseated, he returned to his rooms.

He was in his chambers no longer than ten minutes before a silvery energy danced in his sitting room. He ceased his pacing to investigate, though he already suspected what happened. A golden tray of his favorite food appeared on his table. The room was perfumed with lamb, glazed pears, and small discs of fried potatoes. His absence may have been overlooked by most of Asgard, but his mother certainly noticed. He smiled fondly as he scanned over the delicious spread she sent. She even included his favorite dessert: a cone made of sweet dough filled with fluffy cream and sugared almonds. He licked his lips in anticipation. She did forget to include wine, but he supposed she could be forgiven for that. He kept plenty in his room anyway.

After enjoying his meal in the quiet of his room, he grew restless. He caught sight of the sword as he paced. He inspected the sword once again, eyeing its faded details and chinked black blade. The black insignia beneath the chappe disturbed him. It seemed as if the insignia were watching Loki with knowing eyes. Wind rustled his verdant curtains. Shaking the eerie feeling aside, he placed the sword back on his desk and stepped out to his balcony.

The tide was in. He could smell the salt on the breeze. It whispered through his hair, releasing his locks from the pomade he used to tame them in a slicked coif. Below, Asgard glowed like a gem. His chest inflated. It was a beautiful city, rich in culture and ideas. His people, though sometimes slow-witted and tedious, were the blood of his beloved realm. They worked day in and day out to keep Asgard sovereign in trade. He didn’t show it often, but he was proud of his people and believed they deserved much from their leader—present _and_ future.

He sighed as his mind wandered through fantasies. He saw himself on the throne, Gungir in his grip, doting subjects before him, and a beautiful queen beside him. Odin would have seen Thor as brutish and short-sighted and installed his youngest—the unlikely and unsung hero of Asgard—as her rightful king. Thor would continue as he always had: gallivanting from realm to realm and protecting Asgard from danger.

That’s what Thor was best suited for. Protection. He was an oaf, but his heart and loyalty could never be questioned. Back when Sigurd teased Loki mercilessly, calling him a worm and attempting to make him eat Huginn and Muninn’s droppings, Thor was there to save him. He was always around when Loki needed him most. Despite being ashamed that he needed his big brother for protection, he was always secretly grateful for his intervention. The God of Thunder—his brother—was a fantastic ally to have. He felt lucky to have him.

Something strange suddenly caught his eye. Snapping out of his haze, he glanced to the east by a small thicket of trees. Two pale blue lights glowed in the dark. Loki knitted his brow and leaned in, straining his eyes to see what it was. It was too far away to make out anything in detail, but he thought he saw a vague outline of a body. A knock at his door drew his attention away briefly. Hoping Sif had come to forgive him, he headed back inside.

He opened the door to his mother. He tried to hide his disappointment, but he could never fool Frigga. She lifted an eyebrow with a knowing smile.

“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” she said.

“Of course not. Come in.”

He invited her in and kissed her head. She drifted in, fingers tented, and surveyed the room she barely set foot in anymore. Loki remembered the nights of his childhood when she’d read to him, or let him read to her. There were also the bedtime magic lessons and tearful nights holding him as he cried from Sigurd’s torment. His heart yearned for the days he could turn to his mother without shame.

“Did you get the meal I sent?” she asked.

“Yes, that was thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

She regarded him with an amused expression. “And the cream cone?”

He couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. “It was delicious.”

She chuckled warmly. They talked for awhile. Pleasantries, mostly. He was aware that she was trying to draw information from him. Probably due to Baldur’s return. She wasn’t ignorant to their history. He tried to make it clear that he was fine without acknowledging the unspoken topic. Content, or at least resigned, she bid him goodnight and left after planting a kiss on his cheek.

Fatigue finally caught up with him. He waved his hand to snuff the fire crackling in the hearth and walked to his balcony to close the door. The blue lights were still there. Perplexed, he stepped outside and leaned over the balustrade for a better look. They weren’t just inanimate lights. There was a weight behind them. They were fixated on him, smoldering and intense. A shiver crept up his spine. He got the vague impression that something wanted to cause harm.

He went back inside and locked the door. The clicking of the deadbolt sliding in the place did little to comfort him. In fact, it only made him feel ashamed. Asgardians were not cowards. They did not hide behind locked doors. Perhaps Sif was right to laugh at him.

After stripping down to his breeches, he crawled into the left side of the bed. It was habit now. Sif had claimed ownership of the right side and would often annex the remainder of it. Loki would either end up pushed against the edge of the bed, or getting kicked and hit all night by his restless bedmate. He used to find it tiresome, but now he missed her. She’d probably laugh at him if she knew that.

He fell asleep after vowing to _try_ to think before he spoke in the future.

 

 

***

There was a strange stillness in the night. Upon first glance, everything seemed normal: the moons were chasing each other in the sky, the spangled nebula morphed and shifted with cosmic winds, and a gentle breeze blew through Asgard, making the night feel alive. But there was an unmistakable stillness in between the spaces. Something hidden in the layers of existence. It felt profoundly wrong.

Asger patrolled the perimeter of the palace. A a creepy feeling nested in his bones. He kept looking over his shoulder as if he sensed something lurking behind. Each time he looked, a topiary or a garden rabbit was the only thing to be seen. He cursed himself. The Einherjar were Odin’s elite guard. They were not afraid of bushes or bunnies.

He nodded to a comrade as they passed and wondered if he was feeling the same stillness he was. A wispy black cloud blew past the moons like smoke. The bushes rustled. He tensed.

Halmjar greeted him as they crossed paths.

“How’s the western quadrant?” he asked.

“Clear,” Asger said, hoping his voice sounded sturdier than he felt. “A few rabbits.”

The mountain of a man grinned. “My daughter’s been wanting a rabbit. Perhaps we should catch one for her.”

Asger feigned a laugh. His eyes shifted when he thought he heard breathing.

“Something the matter?” Halmjar asked.

He shifted from foot to foot. “Something seems strange.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged and kept looking around. There was that breath again. “The night seems stiff,” he said. “Still, but not still.”

Halmjar looked around, his head bobbing slightly. “I know what you mean. I feel it too.”

Asger exhaled in relief. “I thought it was just me.”

“No. Stay alert. It’s probably nothing, but there’s a possibility that something is going on, given that the Norn Queen is here and all. You can’t trust dealers in magic.”

A scream suddenly pierced the night. Immediately, Asger and Halmjar bolted to the eastern quadrant where the sound came from. Other guards were responding as well while a few hung back at their posts in case of a diversion. As they approached, a skirmish came into view. A couple of guards were swinging spears and swords at an unseen foe. Amidst the clangs of swords, a snarl too dark to belong to any beast was heard. It made Asger’s blood run cold.

“What’s going on?” Halmjar yelled.

There was another scream, this time inhuman.

“Draugr!”

The fray was growing larger, but Asger couldn’t figure out why. All he saw was the silvery blur of swords cutting through the air. Before he could make it to the group, a black creature with yellow eyes collided with him head on and knocked him to the ground. His assailant perched on him, growling gleefully. It clawed at his pauldron, its nails shredding the leather. With a cry, Asger slammed his fist against the monster’s face until it fell off. He tried to scramble away, but the draugr was too fast. It was on him again before he could climb to his feet.

Asger cried out and grappled with the monster. He grabbed its leathery black arms and tried to force it off. It roared at him, its jaw dropping low to show its jagged teeth. Despite its thin frame, the creature was strong and bore down on him. Another black creature jumped on him to aid its comrade. Their smell was appalling; like rotten meat. He screamed as the second beast bit down on his neck. Suddenly, the beast on top of him was knocked away. The second one shrieked in pain. Halmjar hoisted Asger back to his feet.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Asger’s hand flew to the bite mark on his neck. It was bleeding, but thankfully was not near his jugular. “It bit me,” he said, “But I’ll manage.”

Halmjar immediately dove back into the fray. Asger followed, slashing and cutting down any draugr that he came across. Their screeches and gurgles were disturbing. He tried not to pay too much attention to it, lest the sounds haunt his sleep.

The attack was strange to him. Gladsheim hadn’t been attacked in centuries, though he was sure that this was the first draugr attack. What puzzled him further was that it appeared the creatures were trying to get to the palace. The ward protecting it emitted an unmistakable energy. He had heard that the ward had the strength to paralyze a mountain troll. Surely the devils sensed it. Regardless, the Einherjar pursued their quarry.

As he chased after the draugr, something dashed by him. A horrid stench was left in its wake. Asger stumbled and almost wretched. He took a moment to regain his composure. When he looked up, he saw a cloaked figure at the base of the main stairs. It raised a thin, gray arm above its head. A knife with a black blade was fisted in its hand. The draugr kept the Einherjar from advancing on the figure. They fought with a new vigor. Several men were tackled to the ground, their cries becoming bubbling gurgles. Ranged guards tried to fell the strange intruder with a volley. Several arrows made their mark, but to Asger’s shock, it did not deter the figure. It stood unwavering with arrows sticking out of its back like a pincushion.

The figure swung the knife forward. It seemingly stopped midair as it collided with the ward. Asger’s jaw dropped. He didn’t think it was a physical barrier that could be touched. He watched dumbstruck as the figure dragged the knife downward. The shield shimmered and sparked as the knife tore through it.

When the figure stepped away, his blood ran cold. It looked like a corpse: rotten, saggy face with glowing blue lights in the sunken holes where its eyes should be. Tattered clothes and rusted armor hung from its attenuated frame. It wasn’t like any creature he had seen before. The intruder stood beside the flickering tear, smirking as the draugr darted through the tear and into the palace. Another cloaked figure appeared. It nodded to the corpse that cut through the ward and slipped inside.

Asger was tackled to the ground once more before he came back to his senses. A frenzied draugr was on top of him, clawing away his armor. He knocked the beast off and reached for his sword, but had dropped it out of reach. He struggled to his feet, but the monster tackled him again. It flipped him over, roaring and spitting in his face. It ducked its head down and tore at the flesh on his neck.

He flailed wildly, trying to push it off. It plunged its nails through the gaps in his armor and clung to his body. Hope for rescue quickly died as it bit into his jugular. He sputtered and coughed. Blood bubbled from his throat and spilled hotly onto the earth. This was his end. The only comfort he had through the pain was that as soon as his living body gave out, he would be shepherded to the flowing halls of Valhalla. His warrior afterlife had been earned.

His last image was of another corpse with glowing blue eyes smirking down at him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Loki woke with a violent jerk. Something was wrong. It couldn’t articulate it, but something in the palace was off. He jumped out of bed and threw on the closest tunic he could find. Not having time for his boots, he stepped into a pair of simple leather shoes before running out of his bedchamber.

A pair of piss-yellow eyes locked on him in the dark of his sitting room. Sleep still gripping his brain, he gawked in confusion. It hissed, then lunged at him. Loki barely had enough time to dodge it. It came at him again like a flash. He jumped back and pulled a dagger out of a pocket in space and slung it at the creature. It howled as the dagger found purchase. Without hesitating, he let a few more daggers fly at his attacker before it collapsed without a sound.

He lit his room with a wave of his arm. A black draugr lay dead in the middle of his floor. His stomach dropped. He realized what woke him up. Monsters inside Gladsheim could only occur if the ward was breeched. Something was _terribly_ wrong.

Grabbing a sword from his wall, he ran out into the hall. The guards stationed outside his door were slumped on the floor. He knelt to inspect them. One was clearly dead, but the other was still breathing. He rushed back into his room to retrieve a healing stone. He located the fatal wound, a transverse slash across his abdomen. It had ripped through the guard’s leather armor and cut deeply into his flesh. As swiftly as he could, he ground the stone into the wound. The guard sucked in a breath.

“This should keep you until you can get proper aid,” Loki said. “I’ll send for someone when I can.”

He darted through the halls as fast as he could, surprised that he had not run into Thor yet. He flew down the stairs to the atrium. As he turned a corner, he came across a throng of draugr. They converged on him in an instant. He held them off as best as he could, cutting them down with his sword and blasting them with magic. More and more spilled into the colonnade. He whirled around to assess the situation. He was completely surrounded by a horde of putrid shadow beasts, all snarling and gnashing their teeth. Cursing under his breath, he thought now would be a lovely time for Thor and Sif to show up.

Quickly he made copies of himself to help him stand a chance against the horde. The draugr leaped at them like wild cats, baring teeth and claws to shred them. His clones vanished in a puff of green smoke each time they were touched. His footing was clumsy. He tried to spawn new clones, but the slightest diversion of attention was potentially fatal.

A draugr stood at its full height before Loki and glared down at him as a mountain does to a hillock. Loki’s heart hammered in his chest. Knife-like talons curled at the monster’s fingertips. It slashed at him. He threw himself backwards to dodge, but a claw grazed him, cutting him from the corner of his eye to his upper lip. His leather shoes slipped on the polished atrium floor. Every muscle in his body stiffened as he fell. Draugr snarled as they waited for the right moment to strike. He hit the ground and was immediately covered by a mass of cold, black spirit monsters.

A shockwave blasted through the atrium. The draugr howled and hunkered down, all but forgetting about their vulnerable prey.

Another shockwave. This time, the draugr shrieked and crawled over each other in escape. A wall of energy swept through the palace. It passed through Loki like an electric current. His body tensed, but felt no pain. The draugr, however, shrieked and exploded into black clouds. A white shimmer danced outside of the atrium. The ward was repaired.

Loki lay on his back a moment, mentally scanning his body for damage. He felt blood trickle down his cheek from the gash he incurred, but nothing else. HE he sank into the floor as his muscles relaxed. The queen was suddenly beside him, cradling his head and inspecting him for wounds. He sat up and saw Odin, Gungir in hand, and Karnilla standing before the throne room. All three were still in their bed clothes. Obviously they were just as surprised by the attack as Loki was. He stood and helped his mother back to her feet.

“What the Hel was that,” he asked. A draugr attack on Gladsheim was a good enough reason to abandon formality.

Odin said nothing and entered the gleaming hall. They followed him to the throne where he sank down like a weary load. His face was pulled tightly, his one eye searching for something in the floor’s knot work. The room was heavy and silent. Each swish of cloth or shifting of feet was amplified in the dense quiet. Frigga ascended the steps to his side. She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t react. Loki glanced at Karnilla who looked distressed. It was an odd look on her. He only ever saw her smug, seductive, or vexed.

She was the first to break the silence.

“Odin, perhaps now we should come up with a plan.”

His voice was low and methodical. “And what plan could we come up with against this foe?”

Loki blinked. Odin defeated by draugr breeching the ward?

“Perhaps Mephisto could offer—”

“I will not reach out to that devil,” he boomed. They jumped back, his voice shattering the thick silence. “I will not be indebted to an insidious serpent such as him!”

Frigga stroked his fine white hair. “Perhaps we should summon Hela and consult with her.”

“Consult with her about what?” Loki asked.

The All-Father’s eye fluttered shut. He sighed. “Perhaps we should.”

“Would somebody mind filling me in?” he asked. He glared at the others in the room.

Odin didn’t respond. Frigga glanced at the Norn Queen who sighed heavily. Loki turned his cutting glare to her.

“We believe Bor’s valkyrior have awakened.”

Again, Loki blinked. “What?”

She continued. “Spirits are missing from the After Realms. We believe the wraiths are using the draugr to kill their victims. There have been reports of attacks throughout the kingdom, including one last night in the village a few leagues from here.”

“And so naturally you assume Bor’s cursed bodyguard are the culprits.”

The Norn Queen’s lips drew thin, not at all pleased with his tone. “They have a grudge against your father’s house.” She turned to Odin as if she just realized something. “It makes sense that they would attack Gladsheim to exact revenge for what your father did.”

Odin’s eye opened to a slit. He pulled on his beard deep in thought.

“ _Ghosts_ attacked us, Karnilla,” Loki said as if he were speaking to a child. “Angry, restless _ghosts_. Just because you have linked the two together in your mind, does not mean the Dísir are—”

“Don’t speak their name!” Odin shot up from his throne. Loki nearly jumped out of his skin from the sudden outburst. Karnilla and Frigga looked startled as well. The room was electrified, trembling wildly as Odin descended the steps to his son. Loki took a step back, but the All-Father was looming over him before he could back away. It occurred to him that it had been ages since he was so close to his father.

“You’re a smart boy,” he said in an unnaturally level voice given his previous outburst. “I trust you have read about these creatures, have you not?”

Loki nodded. “I-I have.”

“You are familiar with their legend?”

“Yes.”

Odin’s breathing was controlled. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. His one eye was piercing. Loki lifted his chin to appear confident, but couldn’t do anything to calm the trembling of his stomach.

“And yet you disregard the legend? Hm? You speak their name?”

“Father, I—”

He exploded, face red and eye ablaze. “Do you have any idea what you have done?” Spittle landed on Loki’s face. He flinched away, eyes fluttering shut so he could no longer see the man towering above him.

The All-Father paced like a wild beast. Loki had yet to open his eyes. His hands balled into fists to keep his internal tremors from surfacing.

“My son,” Odin murmured as he paced, “My _son_ the reason why good souls will not reach their final resting place. My son the reason why they were _consumed_ by creatures too evil for their name to be spoken! And for what? Hubris? Contempt?”

His eyes flew open. Against his better judgment, he approached the king. “Father, I was not the one who started this. Thor—”

He whirled around abruptly, stopping Loki in his tracks. “Thor? What does Thor have to do with this?”

“He’s the one who took the sword from the tomb.”

Odin froze and when he spoke, his voice was dark. “What sword?”

Loki almost regretted mentioning it. “He took a black sword from a draugr tomb in the Black Hills. He asked me to investigate it.”

Again the room trembled. Karnilla and Frigga were standing close together, watching the spectacle unravel. They hadn’t moved an inch since the All-Father’s initial outburst. Loki felt alone in a cage with an enraged bear.

“And despite physical evidence of their existence, you disregard the warnings and put the realm in danger!”

He was shattering. “But Father, Thor—”

“ _You_ should have known better,” he boomed as he advanced on him again. Loki was rooted to the ground. To flee from Odin would be the biggest mistake of his life. He forced his eyes to remain open as his father put his face directly in front of Loki’s. “Do not blame this on your brother whose only crime is theft. You opened the floodgates to a monster you can’t even fathom. You are responsible for the despair you have unleashed upon the dead. Do you know what happens after the wraiths consume their victims?”

Loki didn’t dare answer. He cast his eyes to the ground.

“No,” he replied. The disgust laced in his voice crushed Loki. “I thought not.”

He lingered a moment longer in his son’s face before marching past him towards the exit. Loki didn’t look up from the floor. He feared that his mother and Karnilla would see the glassiness of his eyes.

“The wraiths have not come for revenge on my father’s house, they come because _my son_ has summoned them.” His voice was once again calm, yet the disdain he put into saying “my son” cut Loki deeply. He felt the All-Father’s icy gaze bear into him.

“You will fix this,” he said. And with that, Odin left. Loki listened as his footsteps faded into the depths of the palace. He had yet to look up from the floor. His body was paralyzed and ego bruised.

He jumped when Frigga placed her hands on his shoulders and gave him a comforting squeeze. He closed his eyes tightly. A tear slid down the ridge of his cheek. Tenderly, she swiped it away with her thumb.

“We will be safe tonight,” she said, her voice like a low-burning candle. “Get some sleep.” He allowed her to kiss his cheek, but it did little to comfort him. Her slippers scuffed rhythmically against the polished floor until she was gone. Karnilla was frozen in her place. He could feel the weight of her gaze scrutinizing him.

“What?” he said, his voice low and cutting.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He replied with a condescending glare. He loathed how tender and concerned she sounded. It didn’t fit the cunning enchantress.

She wasn’t impressed with his venom. She sighed. “I was hoping my fears were unfounded, but it seems like we are in a bit of trouble.”

Loki snorted.

“No need to be rude,” she said, “I’m not the one who unleashed cannibal wraiths with the power to control the dead.”

“Yes, Karnilla,” he snapped. “In case you weren’t paying attention to my father’s rage, my sole guilt in the matter has already been determined.”

“Well moping isn’t going to fix this.”

Feeling too frustrated and defeated to listen, he turned to leave. “And I suppose beating a dead horse will.”

“Do you still have the sword?”

“Of course I do.”

“Show me.”

Loki didn’t want to play host to her tonight. He mostly wanted to sleep, but knew his buzzing head wouldn’t allot him even a moment of rest until he figured out how to appease Odin. Nevertheless, he led the way back to his chambers. He had half a mind to check in on Thor who annoyingly slept through the entire commotion. Thor could hardly go three hours without starting some sort of fight, yet when one literally came to his doorstep, he slept through it.

Two new guards were standing in front of his door when he returned. He gathered that someone had happened upon them and sent for help, which was probably for the best given that Loki completely forgot about them. A rotten smell assaulted them as they stepped inside. The draugr corpse was gone, but its body left an inky stain in the shape of its body on Loki’s rug. He immediately ordered his new guards the dispose of it, which they did begrudgingly. Unfortunately, the scent didn’t disappear when the rug did.

“They got this far into the palace?” Karnilla asked. Her eyes were wide and mouth slightly agape, horrified by the stain she had scene.

Loki chose not to answer. He made it a rule to never answer rhetorical questions, and if Karnilla was stupid enough to be asking genuinely, she deserved to be left in the dark. He walked over to his desk to retrieve the sword and his stomach dropped when the empty desktop stared up at him. Stupefied, he stared back as if it was just a trick of his eyes. Realizing the sword really wasn’t there, he whipped around, his eyes scanning fiercely for the object.

“What’s wrong?” Karnilla asked. She watched him warily as he ripped through his sitting room searching for the weapon.

“It’s gone,” he said as he searched the bedroom. “It was on my desk and now it’s missing.”

The witch stormed up behind him. “It’s what?”

Loki whirled around and ran into her. Her eyes were on fire and her nostrils were flaring like a minotaur. He was aware of the energy collecting in her body and desperately tried to prevent a tantrum that could destroy his apartment.

“Thor must have taken it!”

She wasn’t convinced. “Thor took it?”

“Yes. He's developed a nasty habit of breaking into my room and stealing my things. He must have taken it back on the justification of ‘finders keepers.’”

Karnilla nodded slowly. The idea wasn’t completely unfounded, but definitely unlikely. While it was true Thor hadn’t mastered the concept of knocking before entering, and he also liked to just take things that belonged to Loki, it had been years since Thor had been guilty of this crime. As they grew older, Thor usually fell asleep before Loki, either as a result of excessive alcohol consumption or because of exhaustion from his training regimen. Loki also developed the habit of staying up later, sometimes for days on end, either because he was studying or general insomnia. The nights he slept soundly were due to the pleasure of Sif’s company. Besides, given that Balder’s feast was earlier that night, Thor had probably drunk himself into a stupor and probably wouldn’t wake up for another two days, which also explained his absence from the skirmish.

Either way, Loki was latched to the idea. He swept away to Thor’s room and quietly slipped inside. A dim orb appeared in his palm, casting a gentle glow to help him see. Thor was passed out face down in his massive bed, still dressed in his full regalia. His red cape served as a blanket. Loki moved like a shadow around his room, checking any place he may have placed the sword. The dim light danced on Mjolnir, which lay haphazardly on the floor. Loki growled at his brother’s blatant disrespect for the hammer. He almost reached out to place it reverentially out of the way, but stopped himself before he felt like a fool.

He turned up nothing on his search and returned to his room. Karnilla was sitting daintily on his couch with one leg draped over the other, and a book held primly before her face. She glanced up at him when he entered. When she saw him empty handed, her brow furrowed.

“It’s somewhere,” Loki said before she had a chance to speak. “It couldn’t have gotten up and walked away.”

The queen placed the book on the table beside her and walked over to him. She stood tall before him with squared shoulders. Though Asgardian women were tall compared to women on other realms, Asgardian men still had a few inches over them. Karnilla, however, was eye-to-eye with him. It was thrilling to be with a woman who looked as powerful in stature as she was in practice. Perhaps that was what drew him to her in the first place. He wasn’t fond of the demure women that existed in court. He found them dull and indiscernible. Karnilla was a breath of fresh air with her bold and cutting personality and wicked looks.

Despite her talents in bed being worthy of song, being queen of Nornheim made their affair difficult. Though he was always happy to entertain her on her visits, the time between their couplings left Loki bored. He turned his sights to Sif, Goddess of War and the object of his boyhood affections. Much to his surprise and delight, she responded positively to his flirtations and eventually invited him to her bed. What was meant to be a casual affair eventually turned into something that frightened Loki. Her sudden rejection tore him up more than he wanted to acknowledge. To distract himself, Loki’s eyes fell from Karnilla’s and drank in her body.

“I hope so, Loki,” she said. She was unresponsive when his fingers ghosted over her arms. “I shudder to think what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands.”

She turned and left before Loki could entice her with a kiss. The night finally caught up to him. The fatigue from fighting, hatred from his father, and cold rejection from Karnilla fell on him like an avalanche. His head felt heavier than Mjolnir. Feeling rotten and black, he returned to his chambers and fell into a dreamless sleep. He didn’t even see the corpse standing in the gauzy curtains with the black sword fisted in its bony hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG A BOOKMARK!! :D AHHH. imaginenations, you are the reason I walked around like a peacock today. Thank you everyone who is committed to reading this story, have left kudos, and comments! I'm very excited about this piece and you guys motivate me to write more.  
> I made one tiny edit to the previous chapter. Instead of Brün ordering Loki AND Thor to be killed, she just order's Loki's execution.
> 
> :) Enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay for this update. This chapter was startlingly difficult to write. Plus, I'm ever distracted by other writings and such. In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> Love and Hugs and Sunshine.  
> The Duck.

Loki was up before the sun spilled pale light over Gladsheim. He slept for a little more than an hour before he woke. A cold chill had passed through his chamber and woke him up. He usually preferred the colder the climates, but there was a bite to the draft that was enough to disturb him beneath the thick blankets. The odor was still lingering in his apartment, though weaker than earlier. Though it was minor, it annoyed him. He made a mental note to make the servants thoroughly clean his apartments as soon as possible.

He tried going back to sleep, but the task Odin had charged him with and other stressors kept him up. After five minutes of tossing and turning, he decided sleep was impossible and journeyed to the library. It had always been his sanctuary, never failing to provide an escape through enthralling stories or knowledge. In the daytime, it was like the rest of Gladsheim: bright, capacious, and impressive. At night, though, it glowed like a jewel. Metallic and gem inlays bounced light from the torches flickering in their sconces. The shadows were dense, but they hid volumes of knowledge, not monsters. A water fountain was located in the middle of the library beneath a pendent chandelier. It was a circular formation of polished stone threaded with veins of silver. Water bubbled from three large stones that stood in the pool, each possessing a rune that said “learn,” “understand,” and “master”—a testament to Asgard’s philosophy towards life.

Loki passed the fountain to his usual alcove in the northern end of the library. The books from his initial investigation into the Dísir were still scattered across the table top. He collapsed into the chair with a sigh and began to read. Soon golden light poured in through the high windows and illuminated the library with the morning glow. His eyes burned from poor sleep and vigorous reading. When the pain of hunger began to pester him, he returned to his chambers to freshen up for the morning meal. He was pleased that the rancid smell in his room had finally dissipated.

When he arrived in the Banquet Hall, he wasn’t surprised that Thor was absent. He probably wouldn’t appear until the nightly feast at the earliest, but Loki was still betting it would be another day before Prince Inebriate would appear. News of the night before had already spread. Gazes fell on him as he made his way through the hall. He wasn’t bothered by this. He had gotten used to being stared at centuries ago.

Sif cut him off before he could get to the food. Usually a thrill would tip down his spine at the sight of her, but he was hungry and tired and felt rather spiteful towards her due to her recent neglect and absence during the previous night’s fight.

“What happened last night?” she asked. Her eyes were eager, searching his face for information.

“Good morning to you too, Sif,” he said, “I trust you had a lovely night without any disturbances.”

A dark thought passed through his mind about what kept her from joining the fight. Or _who_. He stiffened. His fingernails longed to press into the palms of his hands. He retained his composure.

Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t hear anything. I would have been there had I known.”

Her moans echoed in his head. No, of course she wouldn’t have heard.

“Perhaps the great Maiden of War isn’t as vigilant as she’d have us think.”

Her lip curled in a snarl. “What is your problem? Have I done something to offend you?”

The image of Baldur hoisting her laughing into the air flashed in his mind. “Nothing of the kind,” he said, his voice an oil slick.

He looked away as if she were never there before walking around her. With each step he berated himself. Despite the voice in his head begging him to form some kind of apology, he didn’t. Whatever they had, it wasn’t exclusive. They never stipulated the premise of their couplings, they just did it. She was technically free to do what she wanted regarding other men, but Loki preferred to keep her to himself. But Sif wasn’t meant to be contained in his pocket. His tongue and petty jealousies doubtlessly ended their whatever altogether.

He took his meal outside on the balcony. The morning was unusually mild given the time of year. His bones warmed in the glow of the sun. He sneered when he realized he was enjoying the pleasant rays. He couldn’t escape Baldur’s presence anywhere.

A commotion in the courtyard below stole his attention. Brunnhilde was mounting her winged steed and calling orders to a handful of her warriors. With a shout, their horses launched into the air and flew off towards the north. Another group of warriors rode off into the city. He shook off his curiosity and continued to eat.

He returned to the library when he was finished. He plopped back down in his seat and stared blankly at the open pages before him. Not much was written on the Dísir. The same few paragraphs were written in every relevant tome only with different wording. Since leaving his childhood behind, he and Odin hadn’t gotten along very well. Their warm relationship became strained when Loki’s ideologies began to differ greatly from his father’s. Despite their differences, though, Loki always respected Odin’s authority and judgment. However learning that the All-Father believed in superstition was embarrassing. Odin was all powerful and master of the realms, but a ghost story had him thoroughly rattled. It didn’t make any sense.

He couldn’t bring himself to read anymore about the damn beasts. He couldn’t pretend he cared or believed in such nonsense. The sword could have been placed there by some twat as a form of homage to the silly superstition. People did things like that all the time, like how Asgardian farmers left bowls of porridge out for the Nisse to keep cleaning their barns rather than lighting them on fire out of spite. It was a sickness, really.

The library doors groaned. Purple energy impressed upon him. Karnilla had arrived. He looked up and saw her approaching him, her burgundy dress flowing behind her as if she was caught in a wind. The woman always walked with such dramatic flair.

“Good morning,” he said.

“It’s the afternoon, Loki.”

He shrugged. “Details. How can I be of service to you, my lady?”

“I’ve just come to see how much you have discovered about our little problem.” She leaned her hip against his desk and peered over the scrolls and tomes left on the top. He slouched in his chair, resting his elbow on the arm rest.

“Nothing particularly important,” he said. “There apparently is a sword crafted by some unknown smithy from Niflheim that could cut them down. Supposedly it’s the only weapon that can damage them, or so the legend goes.”

She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “That sounds rather important.”

He shrugged. “Depends on what you believe.” He met her gaze with unmoved expression. Karnilla was throwing needles at him with her eyes. She sighed and shifted from one foot to another, her hip popping dangerously.

“I don’t understand how someone of your intelligence can be in denial of this.”

He chuckled. A condescending grin appeared on his thin lips. “It is my intelligence that keeps me above all of this nonsense.”

She placed her hands on the desk and leaned over. The neckline of her dress drooped and exposed the curve of her dress. A weaker man would have gawked.

“Of all the things that exists in the vast Nine Realms,” she said, “Of all the strange creatures you have encountered and bizarre quests you have embarked on, do the wraiths really stretch your perception of reality that much?”

His stare never left hers. “I do not believe in cannibals cursed by Bor to hunt souls for eternity,” he said, his voice icy and smooth like a winter river. “The tale is too fantastic—too well crafted to be reality.”

"What else could it be, Loki?" Her eyes were wild, exasperated by his purported density. "If it walks like a bilgesnipe, then it's probably-"

"A plethora of other things," he said before she could finish the exhausted idiom. He was growing weary of the hysteria involving the draugr. He always suspected that he was the most sensible man in Asgard, but even he believed that was born from vanity. It was beginning to feel like reality now. "Gladsheim has been attacked before, and it will be again. These creatures are not exclusive to your silly bedtime stories. The old adage 'correlation does not equal causation' comes to mind."

She stared a moment longer before shaking her head and rising back to her full height. “I crafted warding charms last night and gave it to Brunnhilde to distribute around Asgard. However given that they were able to cut through the ward surrounding the palace, I fear they will be largely ineffective.”

Loki had no idea why she was telling him this. He humored her by keeping his snide comments to himself, but mocked her an amused, albeit supercilious, look. She noticed his expression and glowered. The darkness pouring from her eyes would have stopped Sutur in his tracks. Loki tried not to grin.

She left without another word.

 

***

As expected, Thor didn’t emerge until the following day. He looked like the living dead when he trudged down from his rooms for the nightly feast. Baldur joined the world of the living the previous night and didn’t look half as bad as Thor despite probably drinking the same amount. Leave it to Sun God to recover handsomely. Loki convinced himself he didn’t care when Thor took a seat beside Baldur at the long row tables instead of next to him on the dais. Thor tended to breathe too loudly when he ate anyway.

The tension was thick. At least to Loki it was. Thor and his cronies didn’t seem to notice. They ate in peace, talking amicably and going easy on the mead. Loki hated being ignored. He hated being forgotten even more. He didn’t expect much from Hogun, Volstagg, Baldur, or even Sif at this point, but he would have assumed Fandral or Thor would have noted his absence. He felt foolish eating on the dais alone, but his cool, indifferent demeanor didn’t show it.

When he finished his meal, he made for the exit, making sure to walk close to their table. As expected, Thor took notice.

“Loki,” he called, “I was wondering if you were coming to join us!”

He sniffed. So his absence was noticed. “I’m walking past you, brother, not towards you.”

Fandral lifted his pint. “Stop moping and sit with us. You look like you could use a drink.”

Loki’s cutting eyes scanned the group. Volstagg was shoving cut after cut of meat into his mouth while talking with Hogun while Sif and Baldur ate in complete silence, their eyes deliberately focused on their plates and not on him. His blood heated. Fandral slapped the small of his back, knocking him forward and breaking his attention.

“Sit,” he said convivially. “Tell us about what happened last night.”

Sif’s eyes darted to Loki. The flickering light of torches reflected in her dark depths. The reflected light was cold.

“Had you all been the alert defenders of Asgard you swore to be, you would have been there experiencing the event, rather than clinging to gossip like bottom feeders to rocks.”

The group suddenly became aware of the tension Loki brought with him. Perhaps he had imagined it, but brought it to life with his cutting words. Now everyone’s attention was on him. Baldur’s eyes smoldered. Loki wanted to pluck them out of his skull.

“The palace was attacked by draugr,” he said, his voice as cool as a late fall morning. “The All-Father destroyed them with Gungir. There is not much to say on the topic.”

Hogun furrowed his brow. “How did they get past the ward?”

“The general consensus is fabled ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Thor asked, his pretty face knitting in confusion.

“Odin and Karnilla are convinced that ‘Bor’s valkrior’ cut through the ward to allow the draugr in.” His eyebrows shot to his forehead as he said “Bor’s valkrior,” each word dripping with acidic sarcasm. “Which is preposterous.”

Sif eye’s narrowed. “You mean Brunnhilde was right?”

Loki rolled his eyes. Of course Sif would believe the legend. One: it made Loki look like an ignorant fool, which she would find too much joy in and two: she was a slave to ghost stories and adventures. They were her fairy tales.

“There is no _evidence_ to suggest it,” he said. “It’s nothing more than an infectious superstition.”

“Superstition is oft founded in reason, Loki.” Baldur said, his voice like steel and his eyes like flame.

“Don’t attempt to be clever, Baldur, you’ll just embarrass yourself.” He was unmoved by the heated glare Baldur threw at him. When it came to the sport of wicked looks, Loki would always be champion.

Thor hurriedly changed the subject to something more suited to his tastes. Loki almost believed that he had sensed the tension growing, and wanted to preserve the easy atmosphere, but most likely it was because he was bored. The conversation shifted from ghosts to debating if they should go to their favorite local tavern. It didn’t take much deliberation before all were on board. Loki put on a show of rejecting their invitation before accepting in feigned resignation. They left the palace grounds with no inquiries from the guards stationed at the gates. Security had increased twofold. Even some of the valkyrie patrolled the ramparts and lawns of the palace, their sharp eyes on the lookout for anything remotely out of place.

The tavern wasn’t far away from the palace. It was nestled in a corner just outside of the nobility district where commoners dwelled. It was a quaint building made of oak, iron, and stone with chips of green paint flaking off the exterior like snow. Inside was warm and loud. There was a black furnace in the corner of the room with a small, determined flame flickering on a log, but the heat of the room was generated from the people singing, laughing, brawling, and drinking. An older man, merchant probably, sat on a table in the middle of the room playing a catchy ditty on a wooden whistle. They claimed a booth close to the furnace and are served mead almost immediately.

The night was pleasant enough. Loki was able to push a fraction of his stress aside as he shifted his focus to a game of chess against Hogun. The alcohol certainly helped to quiet his head as well. Alfhild, a redheaded, doe eyed barmaid, had lured Fandral away to play another game of cat and mouse. Thor had joined the throng of men arm wrestling and the others passed the night chatting amongst themselves.

Hogun studied the chessboard, deciding what his next move would be. Loki had already figured out the smartest option. He left his king exposed to Loki’s rook with only the queen in the position to intervene. He could move his king back, but would then expose his queen to Loki’s bishop. Either way, Hogun was going to lose his queen. It was a matter of when not if. He was just stalling.

Loki’s attention drifted as Hogun exhausted his options. His eyes wandered around the tavern, taking in the _lusemønster_ patterns carved in the trim, the bilgesnipe antlers hung from the ceiling like a chandelier, and the cobwebs clinging to the rafters. The tavern was certainly beneath him. It lacked the refinement and prestige he was entitled to, yet despite its shabbiness, Loki enjoyed it. It was filled with memories dating back to when he and Thor came upon it during a rebellious outing in their youth, to celebrating successful hunts they frequently had. The patrons were initially awestruck and flummoxed to be rubbing elbows with royalty, but they eventually accepted them as part of the scenery. Loki wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Bored, Loki eavesdropped while he waited for Hogun to fall into his trap. Most of the conversations were drivel—stories about livestock, fishing, children, or neighborly disputes. There was a fellow behind him arduously relaying a story about getting his cows to mate. The detail was appalling and Loki had no clue why he listened as long as he did. It only solidified his long held belief that commoners were dull and uncouth.

The only quasi-interesting conversation involved a towheaded man—a fisherman judging by his smell—at the table beside him. He rattled on about a throng of wrinkled corpses passing through his village the other night. They smelled like the grave and their eyes a ghastly blue. Ostensibly, he came from one of the villages that recently suffered a draugr attack. Were it not for their local witch, the entire village would be dead.

The man listening to the tale bobbed his head. The same thing happened here, he said, in the outskirts of the city. There are even rumors that Gladsheim itself was attacked. Strange things are happening, he muttered, ill times are upon us. Thank the Norns for the Einherjar.

The soft click of Hogun’s queen reluctantly intercepting the rook’s path drew his attention back to the game. Swiftly, he claimed the queen and discarded her beside the other pale pieces he had taken.

“Check,” he said.

Again Hogun withdrew into himself as he puttered his options. The cacophony of the tavern peaked. Thor caroused those dying for the chance to brag they arm wrestled the God of Thunder, the whistler continued playing his merry jaunts, a fiddle joined in the fun, laughter swelled like an ocean wave, and still a piercing shriek was heard from outside.

The life was sucked out of the tavern as the noise evaporated. Thor, Sif, and, Baldur were like guard dogs, ears pricked and eyes focused on the door. Hogun strained to hear for any sound of movement, Volstagg watched with a graveness that didn’t quite belong to him, and Fandral weaved through the crowd to Thor’s side.

“What was that,” he asked. His voice was odd in the silence.

There was no sound inside or outside of the tavern.

“I don’t know,” Thor said. His voice rumbled low like thunder in the distance.

Something shifted. Loki felt it. It was like a sudden drop in air pressure, but it was the energy of Asgard. Something unnatural was outside, curdling the lifestream that flowed through the realm. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. It felt exactly the same as when he bolted from his sleep the night before. Something was horridly wrong.

The room jumped in unison at the onset of another shriek followed by frenzied laughing. Immediately Thor and company were out into the streets. Baldur instructed everyone to stay inside before securely closing the door behind him. Silhouettes whipped down the narrow alleyway like shadows of shot arrows.

Suddenly a shadow pealed itself off the street and towered over them. Its eyes glowed like the harvest moon. Without hesitation, Thor threw himself at it, Mjolnir singing as he swung it for momentum. The hammer crashed against the creature. A horrific _crunch_ echoed in the alleyway. Before long, more shadows actualized into full beings and engaged the warriors in attack.

Loki hurled dagger after dagger at the monsters, each blade making its fatal mark between eyes or in the forehead. Draugr weren’t tricky monsters to fight. They were already dead—restless corpses of ancient warriors, so they didn’t require as much force to fell as a living opponent would. These particular draugr were different through. They seemed intelligent, sentient. While the run of the mill draugr looked like walking corpse, these were jet black with unsettling eyes of sphene. They were mutilated souls, achieved only by a magic so old and wicked that it was banned from all Nine Realms by Bor.

Like the night before, they were overrun quickly. Steel sang through the air, shadow creatures clacked and choked and howled, and thunder cracked overhead like whips. The draugr were not worrisome opponents. Their advantages were their speed and number. The fight was certainly easier with six companions to help Loki, but they kept coming like ants consuming discarded fruit. With a mighty roar, Thor spun Mjolnir, light flashing from the hammer, and crashed it against the cobble stone road. A shockwave similar to Gungir’s flew from the impact zone. Bolts of lightning danced across the road like spider legs and defeated the unfortunate creatures in its path. The entire neighborhood shook from the force of the blow, but it had worked. The eerie stillness returned.

The wrongness intensified. It pressed on Loki’s skull as if he were at the bottom of the ocean. He blinked as if to clear it from his mind, but instead his footing wavered. Fandral caught him and gave him a worried look. Before he could ask, Loki pushed himself away. He mentally lashed himself for faltering. For showing weakness.

Baldur, of course, was the first to break the silence. “What’s going on?”

Either out of assumption Loki had the answer or was to blame, Baldur’s eyes fell to him. Loki bristled, but before he could answer, an acrid stench drifted down the street. Sif gagged. She covered her mouth to will the contents of her stomach to remain where they were. Even Hogun grimaced at the smell. It wasn’t new to them. They had all smelled it before. It was death.

Blue lights appeared at the end of the street. A chill shot down Loki’s spine. The same weight he felt on the balcony when he first saw the blue lights were present. Again, he was well aware of the source’s intention to cause harm.

“Halt,” Thor barked as he squared his body to face them head on. “Who are you? Speak quickly lest you feel the might of Thor!”

More lights—eyes?—appeared as four cloaked bodies became visible. There was a low, menacing chuckling, reminiscent of the shrieking laughter heard just before they fought the draugr. They continued to approach slowly in a phalanx formation, none making a sound besides the eerie snickering.

“I don’t like this,” Volstagg murmured. He wrung his hands on the hilt of his axe.

“I said halt!” Thor bellowed again.

This time, they did. The wind stopped. Stagnant air settled on them. Loki found it difficult to breathe. He studied the veiled strangers. His eyes searched for any tells of identification.

“Greetings Thor, son of Odin son of _Bor_ ,” the front one said, its _S’s_ hissing. The other three growled low at the mention of Bor.

Loki faltered. This couldn’t be.

Thor was ever steadfast. “How do you know who I am?”

“He smells rancid,” one of the figures said, “Just like _him_.”

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Show yourselves!”

The front one, who was obviously the leader the way the other three fed off its cues, fixed its gaze on Loki. He lifted his chin and lengthened his neck as to appear taller. He looked down his nose at them.

“Yes bare your throat, cocky ‘son’ of Odin,” the leader said. Though he couldn’t rightly see its face, he knew it was smirking. “Make it easier for our servants to slit it.”

Thor swung Mjolnir in whirring circles. “You will die before your cretins touched him!” He roared and flung himself at them, the hammer adding momentum and speed. Like cockroaches in light, the strangers scattered away from his trajectory. He found his footing and swung the hammer deftly at the closest target. It leaped backwards atop of a stack of crates. Like a skilled dancer, Thor whirled around, hammer hefted high above his head to crash down upon another. There was a flash, a shadowed blur, the sound of steel kissing steel, then Mjolnir fell to the ground, the leather strap used to tie around Thor’s wrist severed.

The world held its breath. Loki blinked in shock. Thor had been disarmed. Mjolnir was severed from his grasp. Not since his adolescent training and certainly never since wielding the dwarfish hammer had he ever been disarmed. The God of Thunder gaped. It was a blessing the strangers did not have an immediate taste for blood.

“You cannot harm us, Godchild,” the leader said. “We are beyond the jurisdiction of worldly pain.” A sword was fisted in its hand. Loki’s stomach seized at the sight of the black blade deflecting the moonlight. The insignia glowed pale blue beneath the hilt.

“Who are you,” Sif said. There wasn’t a trace of intimidation in her tone.

At the leader’s cue, they removed their hoods. Their faces were gray, wrinkled and weathered with untold time. Lips were no more than dark lines around their mouths. Darkness swirled in the sockets that once held normal eyes, but now housed pale lights. Hair like stringy spider webs dangled in their faces. The slenderness of the deteriorated features were distinctly feminine. There was no telling if they were once beautiful. Their state suggested that they had always been monsters.

“We are the Dísir,” the leader said, her thin lips moving to expose filed teeth. “And we are here to collect our prize.”

They looked to Loki in unison. He didn’t move. His mind was still reeling from the situation. The legends he adamantly believed to be simply that were staring him down, blue lights burning like flames from Niflheim. It was a rare moment in which the Loki the Cunning was stupefied. His skull was blank. The only thing he was aware of was the sudden feeling of being an animal in the wild. The feeling of being consumed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow! That last chapter got a lot of hits! That's delightful!! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this so much. Though it's a challenge for me, I enjoy writing it. I have the entire story outlined so it's just a matter of putting it into a narrative. Fear not! I am determined to finish it.  
> Also, the interaction between The Dísir and Mephisto was inspired by J. Michael Stracznski's "Thor, Vol. 3."
> 
> I love all your comments (thank you FlashySyren and Emily_83 for making me squeal with delight each time I get a comment from you guys! Please do not feel obligated to continue commenting :P I just wanted to say I appurshiate the time you take!)
> 
> Here you go!

The Dísir approached. Their gaze was haunting. He drew in a shallow breath. The air was like frozen silver pouring into his lungs. His mind raced through every morsel of information he had learned about them. Brawn would not save them tonight. They were impervious to any crafted weapon. Even Mjolnir couldn’t fell this foe. They enlisted the draugr. Why? The Dísir were arrogant, bloodthirsty spirits who reveled in misery and danced in raining ichor during their life. They were the kind to enjoy killing and skinning. They did their own dirty work. So why use the draugr to slay the living?

Then it came to him. Loki lifted his chin. His eyes hooded. He hoped he looked indifferent enough to hide the panic shooting through his body. “Go ahead,” he said, “Kill me.” To emphasize his invitation, he tilted his head back to expose the long column of his pale throat.

Thor jumped to his feet ready to intervene. “Loki—”

He shot his brother a look he hoped would root him to the ground. Fandral, so well versed in the trickster’s commanding expressions, grabbed Thor by the arm as he passed. Outraged, the thunderer ripped his arm away only to be grabbed again by Sif. She gave him a stern look and held him back. Confused, Thor watched helplessly as the ghouls closed in on his little brother.

The leader growled as she approached, her sword extended. “Why the invitation, Silvertongue,” she hissed. The point of her sword touched the knob in his throat. The pressure was soft, but decisive. “Lost the will to live?”

He swallowed. His throat stung where the sword pressed into him. “I know when I have been bested,” he said as if he were discussing the weather. His head pounded. The smell from their close proximity threatened to make him wretch. He steeled himself. “And I know how the legend goes. To speak your name is to summon you, and you do not stop until you have eaten your victims.

“Come now,” he opened his arms wide, an invitation. Thor growled in the background and Sif was doubtlessly ready to unleash him. “Slit my throat and be on with it. Oh wait...that’s right.”

The corpse pressed the sword into his throat. Blood beaded at the tip. “What?”

Loki offered her a smile that somehow mixed smug victory and mocking innocence. “You can’t kill me.”

“Is that a challenge?” she hissed.

He shook his head. “No. Well, technically you can kill me, but that wouldn’t be conducive to your objective. From what I understand, you cannot devour that which you kill, a stipulation of Bor’s curse. If you kill me, you can’t eat me. Which is a pity for I assure you I’m quite delicious.”

She snarled. Her lip curled to show her pointed teeth. “You think you can lecture the Dísir about their fate?”

“It seems I have.”

One of the Dísir, a frenzied, hunched over creature, shuddered and clicked her jaw. “Summon them, Brün,” she said in a shaky voice. “Summon them so that he may die and that we may eat!”

“Silence Hlökk,” the leader, Brün, barked. Hlökk chattered her teeth and sniveled, her pale eyes gouging him. Brün glowered. She leaned forward, her stench becoming exponentially worse. “I will unmake you, Loki so called _Odinson_ ,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My sisters will devour all those you hold dear and you will watch. Then I will rip your flesh strip by strip until you are nothing more than bones.”

He gave her a bland look. “Sounds like a date.”

She roared like a stone troll, gravelly and voluminous. Her companions—sisters apparently—joined with noises of their own. Shrieks, growls, and chilling laughter. Brün flicked her blade against his throat. Her precision slivered his pale skin just enough to draw thin line of blood. She returned the sword to the scabbard at her hip and met his gaze. Dread passed through him. He willed his subterfuge to camouflage his fear just a bit longer.

She spoke a promise, certain and inevitable: “Mark me.”

They departed the same way they came, the odor travelling with them. Their steps clacked from an exposed calcaneus one of them possessed. Loki and company were rigid even after they were out of sight. When the oppressive atmosphere finally dissipated, they exhaled a collective sigh.

The silence didn’t last long. Thor mowed Loki over, grasping his shoulders. “You could have been killed,” he said with a mix of relief and rage.

Loki patted his beefy shoulders. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?” Baldur asked, advancing on him.

The trickster shut down to prepare for the storm approaching him. This was not going to be a conversation. Lots of things were often said between the Gods of Light and Mischief, but few were actually communicated.

Thor served as a barrier between the two. “Peace, Baldur,” he said, “Not now.”

He looked past the thunderer to Loki whose eyes were blocked by walls of ice. His nostrils flared. Words went unspoken between them, but Loki was well aware of what they were: blame, suspicion, distrust.

Activity began once more inside the tavern though no music or singing resumed. Fandral raked his fingers through his curly locks and sighed. No one was quite sure what to do next. The last few minutes didn’t seem real. It was almost dreamlike. The nightmare ended almost as quickly as it began and they were left disoriented, confused. Even Loki, whose sharp mind had thought up nearly every scenario possible in life as a result of his neuroticism, was stilted.

Volstagg, ever simple, asked the question that hung in the air just beyond their fingertips: “What now?”

Weighted, the question dropped to the ground. It sat in the middle of the gathering, its gravity drawing their focus and generating a sense of unease. Again, they all looked to Loki. He drew in a breath to calm the fluttering of his body, though he was sure it looked contemptuous. His scanned them and wondered how they were going to react.

“You’re not going to like this...”

 

***

“I wanted to _feast_!” Hlökk cried. She threw her arms wildly into the air and slammed them back down to her sides. The erratic movement sent her tumbling to the ground. Göndrul cackled, earning a hiss from her fallen sister. She snarled back.

“The Thunderer cannot harm us, but he can harm our servants,” Kára said. She watched Brün stare over the horizon. Doubtlessly she was listening for a dying breath. “He is too strong. We will never get to the Trickster with him around.”

Hlökk and Göndrul screeched and lunged at each other. Göndrul, who was tall and sure footed, threw her against a tree and advanced on her. However gangly, feral Hlökk whirled away and launched herself at Göndrul, tackling her to the ground. She gripped her neck and smashed her head against the hard earth repeatedly, her laughter shrill and delirious. Kára smacked her upside the head with a low growl. Hlökk wailed and jumped away. Brün paid no mind.

Kára glowered. “Did you not hear me? We cannot get to Loki with Thor around.”

Brün didn’t hear anything on the wind. “Perhaps your sights are too narrow, Kára.”

The mystic said nothing, but her eyes narrowed.

“It has been epochs since the living air touched our skin. Decrepit though we may be, it gives me such life.” She paused as a gentle breeze stirred the clearing. Though she could not breathe or feel the gentle caress, she drew a breath into her body and opened wide her arms into the wind. Kára watched steadfast.

“The Trickster will be ours in time,” Brün said at length. She turned back towards her sisters. Hlökk was crouched over her knees twirling her spider silk hair around a knobby finger while scratching the flesh beneath her eye. Göndrul sulked on the ground.“Along with his companions. They will seek Eir-Gram, but we will claim them before they can succeed. But I have ambitions, sister.”

Göndrul looked up, her head cocked to the side. “And what would those be?”

Brün’s grin was violent. “I want Odin.”

Göndrul snorted and Hlökk hooted.

Kára didn’t break her gaze from their leader. “Odin.”

A purr arose from Brün’s throat. “And all of those in his house. Claim our vengeance against the filth who cursed us to such a wretched fate!”

“How do you expect to do that?”

“We will separate. I, Hlökk, and Göndrul will pursue our prey, and you will penetrate the ward around Gladsheim and destroy all in your path. You will then hold the All-Father until we regroup.”

Kára snorted. “The ward is stronger than it was previously. I do not have the power to pierce it again. And if I did, with what will I annihilate our enemies? The draugr are weak against Odin.”

Her voice lowered. When she spoke, her words crept out of her mouth like a centipede. “We will ask Him.”

Somewhere in the trees, a crow stopped cawing. The clearing was as still as a grave.

“He will not abide,” Kára said. “He has no qualms with the All-Father. He will not disrupt their détente.”

Brün’s paper thin lips curled upwards. The corners of her mouths resembled knife points. “The Prince of Darkness can always be persuaded.” She could feel her sisters staring at her. Even the Dísir were wary of this consult.

Her words were stern and final: “Summon him.”

 

***

 

The moment Loki uttered “Niflheim,” Thor was on the war path. Like a wild boar, the God of Thunder roared and made straight for the Bifrost. He got to the start of the Rainbow Bridge before they were able to detain him, convincing him that charging straight into the Realm of Fog was not the wisest idea. They needed to regroup; to plan their expedition. Unexpected guests were not treated kindly in Niflheim. Petulant, Thor conceded and lay down his arms.

Loki instructed everyone to remain vigilant while he made preparations for their trip. Needless to say no one was onboard with him in control of the ordeal. He insisted that while the battlefield was their realm of expertise, painstaking planning and research were his. Baldur was particularly unsettled by this, but Thor defended Loki’s integrity. He silenced his trepidations, though only due to Thor’s good faith and not his own.

He returned to the library. For once the hallowed grounds did not bring him comfort. After searching the stacks for appropriate tomes on Niflheim, he sank into his usual chair and stared at an open page. His eyes glazed and he became aware of the stark quiet in the library. His own breathing was deafening.

_My sisters will devour all those you hold dear and you will watch._

He shook his head and forced himself to absorb the words scrawled on the page. The ink had faded and smelled of dust. Water drops stained the pages like spattered blood. Apropos given the violent and disturbing origins of Niflheim. He swallowed.

_Then I will rip your flesh strip by strip until you are nothing more than bones._

He ripped his eyes away from the book and craned his neck back towards the ceiling. His spidery fingers hid his face. Steadily, his chest rose and fall, each breath an anchor. Their eyes. They were so cold. Ice crept up his spine and settled in his heart. Dread consumed him.

He paced a trench into the polished floor, his mind racing, combing through every possible negative outcome they would surely endure. Death was a certainty, hope was an illusion.

He didn’t hear Thor approach, which is surprising given the man’s heavy footfall. He only noticed as he turned while pacing. He stiffened, embarrassed and angry he had been caught unraveling. The blonde mountain was solemn, his cerulean eyes soft. It made him angrier.

“I’m surprised you know this place existed,” Loki said coolly. He regained his composure and lifted his chin higher than usual.

Thor’s easy smile almost disarmed him. “With as much time as you spend in here, how could I not?” Loki prepared a cutting remark, but Thor diverted his attention and began drinking in the faintly familiar surroundings. His face glowed and his smile was nostalgic.

“I remember hunting for you in here when we were boys,” he said, warmth radiating, “To drag you outside to play.”

Loki sniffed. “For once I don’t disagree with your descriptors.”

Thor began to laugh. “Do you remember when we broke Uncle Vili’s dream lens and then ran in here to take shelter because you insisted that he was illiterate and wouldn’t look for us here?”

Loki’s lips twitched. He remembered that day well. They were boys then, young enough to sleep in each other’s beds at night. Their uncles Vili and Ve were visiting from Midgard where they lived among the mortals. They were masters of dreams: Ve spread wholesome and prophetic visions, while Vili chose to distort and confuse, spinning hellish nightmares for the Midgardians. Loki was never fond of Vili. He was pale gray with cruel eyes who gazed at Loki as if he knew a terrible secret.

He and Thor were playing in an antechamber in which Vili and Ve had claimed for dream interpretations when Loki pushed Thor into a slender pedestal holding Vili’s dream lens and knocked it over. It shattered into thousands of glinting pieces across the smooth floor. Terrified of their uncle’s unpredictability, they fled to the library where they created a shelter out of blankets and chairs and hid for hours. It wasn’t until Frigg herself went looking for her sons after missing dinner did they emerge. When they joined the family meal in Odin’s private quarters, Vili gazed at them quietly, his eyes dripping with malice. He never said anything to them, but after that night Loki experienced nightmares more frequently.

“I maintain that he is,” Loki said, “He spends his time with pictures and images. The written word is beyond him.”

Thor chuckled and studied his brother. Loki gave him a dry look. He usually found it amusing when his brute of a brother attempted critical thinking, but right now he found it tedious.

“Can I help you?” he asked, impatient and annoyed.

“I came to see if you were okay.” Thor was rooted to the floor, but Loki could tell he wanted to approach him.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Loki glared. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“An enemy promised to eat you.”

“I’ve been threatened by women before,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “A threat from undead, female, cannibal warriors is no different.”

Thor’s brow creased. “They were women?”

An awkward pause. Loki stared at his brother, eyebrows scrunched. Thor made his head hurt. The dolt’s witless remarks were insufferable and often caused him physical pain. He beamed back innocently, his eyes wide and humorous. Loki shook his head, a smile settling on his lips.

“Yes, Thor,” he said, “Please resist the urge to seduce them. I say this only because my quarters are close to yours and I’d rather not smell that.”

Thor tossed his head back and laughed. The vaulted library was filled with his sound. Despite his efforts, Loki couldn’t stop from laughing either. Thor was too infectious.

When they settled, gloom swept over Loki again. He felt weighted, chilled. The eyes of the Dísir were burned into his memory. His skin crawled.

This time, Thor didn’t suppress his impulses. He approached Loki and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was heavy, but Loki didn’t move away. His eyes slowly traveled from the floor to his brother who was smiling confidently.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. Loki knew it wouldn’t be. The outlook was grim. They were to travel to the Niflheim, the Realm of Fog and Shadow to seek a sword that may or may not exist. They would be hunted by a foe they could not kill and suffer a fate worse than death _when_ they were caught. Despite this certainty, Loki felt lightened. Mustering a small smile, he placed his own hand on Thor’s shoulder, causing his brother’s smile to grow tenfold.

“Come,” Thor said, “It’s late and the kitchens are empty.” He slapped Loki on the back and made for the exit. Loki stumbled forward, but caught himself before he fell. Grumbling, he followed his brother out. A small voice in his head hoped there would be a cream cone left in the kitchen.

 

***

Sulfur was thick in the air. If they were to draw in a breath, the poisonous fumes would kill them within seconds. The Dísir didn’t need to breathe, though, and they walked through the Valley of Shadow and Death without incident. At the end of valley, they came upon His throne room: an arena carved into the black rock with cracks and vents spewing gases into the air. He sat upon his throne carved from ebony and bone. His yellow eyes were visible from the distance.

Their guide, a strange creature with an orb shaped head atop stilt like legs, bounded ahead of them on a clawed foot.

“All hail Mephisto, Prince of Devils, Lord of the Lower Depths,” it cried.

The red man on his throne did not respond. He watched.

“The Dísir of Asgard seek council with His Blackness.”

They came to the foot of his dais and knelt before him, eyes lowered to the hot ground. A vent hissed beside them. Somewhere beyond the arena, the cracking of whips broke the air. Agonizing screams were music.

“The Dísir, hm?” the man said at last. He spoke quietly, but his unnaturally deep voice filled the arena with his eerie sound. “What brings the Warriors of Bor to my court?”

Brün spoke though she did not rise. “We seek a favor from you, my lord.”

“Oh?” he said, his interest piqued. “And what favor do I owe you?”

“None, my lord. We request your aid.”

“My aid in what?”

“We wish to kill the House of Odin.”

Mephisto was unimpressed. “The All-Father and I have an understanding. We have not had bad blood since the start of time. Why should I be a part of this?”

“We are willing to barter.”

“And what do you have to offer, Decrepit One?”

“Asgardian souls.”

He licked the corner of his mouth with his forked tongue. “Asgardian souls,” he muttered, “Rise. Explain yourself.”

The Dísir did as commanded. Their guide hopped to Mephisto’s side and settled into a hollow atop a headless sculpture. It shuddered to life and scooted closer to the black throne. The orb head began to swirl with smoke. A vague picture of the shimmering Gladsheim appeared in the haze.

“My sister was a powerful mage in life,” Brün said, “She mastered black magic and blood spells despite the fact they were forbidden.”

“I’m hardly impressed,” he drawled.

Brün didn’t waver. As she spoke, her story played out in the orb. “She was able to tear the ward around Gladsheim and allow me passage into its halls. Unfortunately Odin woke before the draugr could kill him and destroyed them. He repaired the ward and made it stronger. However, with your assistance, my sister can do it again and lead a stronger legion into the Golden Halls. Once the All-Father is dead, the realms will disintegrate, including Helheim, the Keep of the Dead. The spirits will have no place to go. Hela will not be able to protect them, as is her duty. She will either lose them to us, or look for a new place to house them—your realm.”

Mephisto drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You expected draugr to fell the All-Father?”

“We seek vengeance,” she continued, “Against the swine who cursed us to an eternity of hunger and suffering. His bloodline will pay for his misdeeds.”

The Prince of Devils considered them. “This is all very romantic,” he said, “Worthy of storybook even.” He raised a glass filled with a cloudy liquid to his crimson lips and downed the contents. He passed it to guide who then ate the cup. It noshed on the glass, blood dripping from its lips.

“My lands are empty,” he continued, “Midgardians are experiencing a change of heart. They’d rather beseech their neighbor for food to keep from starving rather than killing them and taking what they want.”

He looked them over. His lips curled into a salacious smirk. “Alright. I’ll give you what you need.”

They folded their arms across their chests and bowed.

“Thank you, my lord,” Brün said.

Mephisto rose from his throne. He was tall like a frost giant, though his skin was flaming red. His body was bare save for the cloth draped around his waist and the tattered, high collared cloak flowing around his body. Every muscle was defined and sharp. He descended the stairs to the Dísir. Göndrul shook before him. She allowed her sisters to drag her into many evil deeds, but bartering with the Lord of Evil was too much for her to bear. Hlökk panted heavily, her body twitching with excitement.

“Though you have not offered anything from yourselves,” he purred.

“What do you want, my lord?”

His predatory gaze traveled them all. “I can think of four things.”

Brün and her sisters bowed. “If it would please you, sire.”

A fang rested on his lower lip. “It would.”


End file.
